ernal house again. He could not make up his mind on what
course of life to enter, since all the happiness of existence had
proved so treacherous, and even realities had shewn themselves to him
under the aspect of a mad dream.

He settled his affairs, and gave himself up to his sorrow in the great
palace of his fathers; where that fatal grotto and every well-known
room only harast his mind with the liveliest images of his own and his
parents misfortunes. He thought too of that hateful witch who was so
entangled in his fate, and of that Crescentia who had appeared to him
and then vanisht again in a way scarcely less marvellous than his
bride. If he could have caught the slightest glimmering of hope, he
might in time have grown reconciled to life again.

At last there rose up within his soul, like a pale star, the wish of
making a pilgrimage to Rome, which he had never yet seen, there to
partake in the graces bestowed upon the faithful, to visit the famous
churches and holy relics, to divert his thoughts from himself in the
midst of the streaming multitude, the throng of numberless strangers
who had journied thither from all quarters of the earth, and to seek
out his friend Alfonso. He also expected that he should find old
Ambrosio in the great city, should receive comfort from this mourner
who had meant to become his father, and might perhaps afford him too
some comfort in his affliction. With these feelings and views he set
out on his way, and after some time arrived at Rome.

He was astonisht when he entered the great city. He had framed no
conception of her grandeur, her ancient monuments, or of such a
concourse of innumerable strangers. It might well be deemed matter of
wonder if one found out any friend or acquaintance, without being able
beforehand to give an accurate account of where he lived. And yet this
wonderful chance befell him in his suddenly meeting Ambrosio, as he
was going up to the Capitol from which the old man was coming down.
The Podesta carried him to his house, where Antonio greeted the
sorrowing mother. The rumour of Pietro's strange end, of Crescentia's
return to life and second departure from it, had already been bruited
as far as Rome: this marvellous story was in the mouth of every
pilgrim, disfigured with confused additions and contradictions, and
drest out by frequent repeating into the very reverse of the truth.
The parents listened with alternations of joy and woe to the story as
Antonio