e feet of the bronze
angel with the lilies in his hand. Do you mark those bold, black,
handsome eyes devouring her face from across the crowd of low-statured
peasants? It is some wild youth from the university, you say? Ay, one
Lucentio of Pisa, a noble gentleman, whose father has sent him to Padua
to study those parts of philosophy that treat of happiness. Bianca knows
not how near her fate lies--knows not that to-morrow the new master of
music and languages will present himself at her father's door and try
his skill in translation, and carry off the sweet prize under the very
beards of the reverend wooers of Padua.

[Illustration: CHURCH OF SANT' ANTONIO.]

Oh horror! there comes sister Katharine! Blessed Virgin, help us to
escape before she sees us, or there will be no peace in the house for a
week. Come, nurse! quick! And Bianca flutters off in affright, and is
lost in the crowd.

There she comes, bonny Kate--a small, slight consequential person,
dressed in a robe of that brilliant green of the northern Italian
painters. She wants no nurse--not she! She would go from Padua to the
farthest country on Fra Paolo's map on the strength of her biting tongue
and her snapping green eyes. "Make way," she orders, "you low, vile
brutes!" and the peasants draw back and look askance at her, and the
women mutter under their breath, and the girls laugh a low laugh. See
her kiss her hand and lay it on the marble. She will not touch her lips
to it for fear of contamination. She hurls an angry oath at the
market-woman standing near with her hens tied up in her kerchief,
because she crowds so close that the hungry birds peck at the silver
galloon of her sleeve. Ay, pretty Kate, you are arrogant now. But wait a
little. Here comes Petruchio, a most unwholesome sight for a summer's
day. Get thee gone in haste, fair Kate!

See how he stalks on through the crowd, with his riding-whip in his
hand, now cutting good-humoredly at a small boy's legs, now playfully
throttling a ruddy peasant-girl with the long lash. His clothes are
torn and muddy. He wears a new hat and an old jerkin, and a pair of old
breeches, thrice turned. He has ridden into town on the sorriest nag
ever bred on the plains of Lombardy. See him stride up to the shrine of
Sant' Antonio. Do you think he will kiss that filthy stone, with the
impress of so many foul mouths upon it? He cuts at it with his whip
until the people start back in affright and the wind blows half the