ficer gave the word,
and, amid a colossal shout of glee from the mob, the half-naked,
grotesque figures, with their strange Oriental faces of sorrow,
started at a wild run down the Corso. The goal was the Castle of St.
Angelo. Originally the race-course ended with the Corso, but it had
been considerably lengthened to gratify a recent Pope who wished to
have the finish under his windows as he sat in his semi-secret Castle
chamber amid the frescoed nudes of Giulio Romano. Fast, fast flew the
racers, for the sooner the goal was reached the sooner would they find
respite from this hail of sarcasm mixed with weightier stones, and
these frequent proddings from the lively sticks of the bystanders, or
of the fine folk obstructing the course in coaches in defiance of
edict. And to accelerate their pace still further, the mounted
officer, with a squad of soldiers armed _cap-a-pie_, galloped at their
heels, ever threatening to ride them down. They ran, ran, puffing,
panting, sweating, apoplectic; for to the end that they might nigh
burst with stitches in the side had a brilliant organizer of the
_fete_ stuffed them full with preliminary meat. Oh, droll! oh,
delicious! oh, rare for Antony! And now a young man noticeable by his
emaciated face and his premature baldness was drawing to the front
amid ironic cheers. When the grotesque racers had passed by, noble
cavaliers displayed their dexterity at the quintain, and beautiful
ladies at the balconies--not masked, as in France, but radiantly
revealed--changed their broad smiles to the subtler smiles of
dalliance. And then suddenly the storm broke--happy ally of the
_fete_--jocosely drenching the semi-nude runners. On, on they sped,
breathless, blind, gasping, befouled by mud, and bruised by missiles,
with the horses' hoofs grazing their heels; on, on along the thousand
yards of the endless course; on, on, sodden and dripping and
stumbling. They were nearing the goal. They had already passed San
Marco, the old goal. The young Jew was still leading, but a fat old
Jew pressed him close. The excitement of the crowd redoubled. A
thousand mocking voices encouraged the rivals. They were on the
bridge. The Castle of St. Angelo, whose bastions were named after the
Apostles, was in sight. The fat old Jew drew closer, anxious, now
that he was come so far, to secure the thirty-six crowns that the
prize might be sold for. But the favorite made a mighty spurt. He
passed the Pope's window, and the da