carrying their rosaries and bunches of flowers, three banners, the whole
village with a candle apiece; next Luca, Biagio, and Astorre with larger
candles--half a pound weight each at the least; then four men to hold up
a canopy, below which came the good curate himself with the relic on a
cushion.

It was deposited with great reverence in the place devoted, having been
drenched with incense. There was a solemn mass. After which things the
curate thought himself at liberty to ruffle into Verona with his news.

VI

THE VISITATION OF THE GOLDEN FISH

When a beast of chase--hart-royal, bear, or wolf--has been bayed and
broken up, the least worthy parts are thrown to the curs which always
come in at the heels of the pack. So it is with a kingly seat: the best
of the meats, after the great officers of the household have feasted, go
to the dependants of these; the peelings and guttings, the scum and
scour of the broth, are flung farther, to the parasites of the
parasites, the ticks on ticks' backs. Round about the Castle of Verona,
where Can Grande II. misused the justice which his forefathers had set
up, lay the houses of his courtiers; beyond them the lodgings of the
grooms; beyond them again, down to the river's brink, were the stews and
cabins and unholy dens, whose office was to be lower than the lowest,
that there might still be degrees for the gentlemen of gentlemen's
gentlemen. And since even cockroaches must drink, in this fungus-bed of
misery there flourished a rather infamous tavern by the sale of _vino
nostrano_, black and sour, of certain sausages, black also and nameless,
speckled with white lumps, and of other wares whom to name were to
expose. This was the tavern of the Golden Fish.

On the evening of the day of the Translation of the Peach-stone, this
tavern was full to suffocation. Stefano, the purple-faced host, in shirt
and breeches, stood dealing the liquor from a tub. Two outlaws lay under
the benches, partly for fear of a visit from the watch, partly because,
having already fallen there once, they feared to fall there again if
they rose. In one hand each held his knife, in the other his empty mug.
Two ladies, intimates of theirs, Robaccia and Crucciacorda, sat
immediately above them, with petticoats ready to make ambush the moment
a staff should rattle at the door; round the table half a dozen shabby
rogues bickered over their cards; Picagente, the hairy brigand, lay
snoring across the thres