by the splashing fountains. In all its
gigantic proportions rose up, up into the clear blue of the spangled
sky, the grand thought of Michael Angelo--the dome of Saint Peter's.

Returning from Saint Peter's, Rocjean proposed to walk through the
Trastevere, the other side of the Tiber, and to cross over the river by
the ponte Rotto or broken bridge. They found the street along the river
very quiet; here and there a light showed, as on the other side, a
wine-shop or coffee-room; but the houses had few lights in them, and
spite of the moonlight, the streets looked gloomy and desolate.

'They seem to keep dark this side of the river,' said Caper.

'Yes,' answered Rocjean, 'and live light. They go to bed for the most
part early, and rise early; they economize fifty-one weeks in a year, in
order to live like lords for the fifty-second--that is Carnival-week.
Then you shall see these queenly Trasteverine in all their bravery,
thronging the Corso. But here is a clean-looking wine-shop, let us go in
and have a foglietta.'

They found the shop full of thirsty Romans--it is safe to say
that--although the number of small flasks showed they could not indulge
their taste so deeply as they wished to. The centre of the listening
group of Romans, was a bright-eyed, black, curly-haired man, who was
reciting, with loud emphasis:

THE LIFE AND DEATH

OF THE PERFIDIOUS ASSASSIN,

ARRIGO GARBETINGO OF TRENTO,

Who slew nine hundred and sixty-four grown
persons and six children.

He had already got through his birth and wicked childhood, and had
arrived at that impressive part where he commences his career of brigand
at large, accompanied by a 'bool-dog':

'He had a bull-dog of the English breed, oh!
More savage than all others that we've seen, oh!
Close at his side it always walked, indeed, oh!
And never barked! but then his bite was keen, oh!
When on some poor man straight he sprung, take heed, oh!
His soul from body quickly fled, I ween, oh!
Because with cruel, gnashing teeth he tore, oh!
Him all to pieces, in a manner sore, oh!'

The reciter here stopped to drink another tumbler of wine, upon which
Caper and Rocjean, having finished their pint, paid their scot and
departed.

'Was that an improvisatore?' asked Caper.

'He might pass for such with a stranger of inflammable imagination, who
didn't know the language,' answered Rocjean. 'He is, in fact, a
reciter, and you can buy the poh, poh-em he