olls down the pillared
nave out into the crowded piazza, where it dies away in harmonious
murmurs, an iron cresset, suspended from the vaulted ceiling of the
nave, filled with a bundle of flax, is fired. The flax blazes for a
moment, then passes away in a shower of glittering sparks that glitter
upon the inlaid floor. _Sic transit gloria mundi_ is the motto. (Now
the lighting of this flax is a special privilege accorded to the
Archbishop of Lucca by the pope, and jealously guarded by him.)

CHAPTER III.

THE THREE WITCHES.

Many carriages wait outside the cathedral, in the shade near the
fountain. The fountain--gushing upward joyously in the beaming
sunshine out of a red-marble basin--is just beyond the atrium,
and visible through the arches on that side. Beyond the fountain,
terminating the piazza, there is a high wall. This wall supports a
broad marble terrace, with heavy balustrades, extending from the
back of a mediaeval palace. Over the wall green vine-branches trail,
sweeping the pavement, like ringlets that have fallen out of curl.
This wall and terrace communicate with the church of San Giovanni, an
ancient Lombard basilica on that side. Under the shadow of the heavy
roof some girls are trying to waltz to the sacred music from the
cathedral. After a few turns they find it difficult, and leave off.
The men in livery, waiting along with the carriages, laugh at them
lazily. The girls retreat, and group themselves on the steps of a
deeply-arched doorway with a bass-relief of the Virgin and angels,
leading into the church, and talk in low voices.

A ragged boy from the Garfagnana, with a tray of plaster heads of
Victor Emmanuel and Garibaldi, has put down his wares, and is turning
wheels upon the pavement, before the servants, for a penny. An old man
pulls out from under his cloak a dancing dog, with crimson collar and
bells, and collects a little crowd under the atrium of the cathedral.
A soldier, touched with compassion, takes a crust from his pocket to
reward the dancing dog, which, overcome by the temptation, drops on
his four legs, runs to him, and devours it, for which delinquency the
old man beats him severely. His yells echo loudly among the pillars,
and drown the rich tide of harmony that ebbs and flows through the
open portals. The beggars have betaken themselves to their accustomed
seats on the marble steps of the cathedral, San Martin of
Tours, parting his cloak--carved in alt-relief, over th