d spring morning that the two Englishmen arrived
at this spot, which, even on the unpleasant errand that they had come,
struck them with surprise and admiration. The villa itself was one
of those vast structures which the country about Florence abounds in.
Gloomy, stern, and jail-like without, while within, splendid apartments
opened into each other in what seems an endless succession. Frescoed
walls and gorgeously ornamented ceilings, gilded mouldings and rich
tracery, were on every side; and these, too, in chambers where the
immense proportions and the vast space recalled the idea of a royal
residence. Passing in by a dilapidated "grille" which once had been
richly gilded, they entered by a flight of steps a great hall which ran
the entire length of the building. Though lighted by a double range of
windows, neglect and dirt had so dimmed the panes that the place was
almost in deep shadow. Still, they could perceive that the vaulted roof
was a mass of stuccoed tracery, and that the colossal divisions of the
wall were of brilliant Sienna marble. At one end of this great gallery
was a small chapel, now partly despoiled of its religious decorations,
which were most irreverently replaced by a variety of swords and sabres
of every possible size and shape, and several pairs of pistols, arranged
with an evident eye to picturesque grouping.

"What are all these inscriptions here on the walls, Baynton?" cried
Selby, as he stood endeavoring to decipher the lines on a little marble
slab, a number of which were dotted over the chapel.

"Strange enough this, by Jove!" muttered the other, reading to
himself, half aloud, "'Francesco Ricordi, ucciso da Gieronimo Gazzi, 29
Settembre, 1818.'"

"What does that mean?" asked Selby.

"It is to commemorate some fellow who was killed here in '18."

"Are they all in the same vein?" asked the other.

"It would seem so. Here 's one: 'Gravamente ferito,'--badly wounded;
with a postscript that he died the same night."

"What's this large one here, in black marble?" inquired Selby.

"To the memory of Carlo Luigi Guiccidrini, 'detto il Carnefice,' called
'the slaughterer:' cut down to the forehead by Pietro Baldasseroni, on
the night of July 8th, 1819."

"I confess any other kind of literature would amuse me as well," said
Selby, turning back again into the large hall. Baynton had scarcely
joined him when they saw advancing towards them through the gloom a
short, thickset man, dressed in a