d
higher. Open flew the windows in every direction.

'_C'est foudroyante!_' said the pretty French _modiste_.

'What the devil's broke loose?' shouted an American.

'_Mein Gott im himmel! was ist das?_' roared the German baron.

'_Casaccio! cosa faceste?_' shrieked the lovely Countess Grimanny.

'_In nomine Domine!_' groaned a fat friar.

'_Caramba! vayase al infierno!_' screamed Don Santiago Gomez.

'_Bassama teremtete!_' swore the Hungarian gentleman.

Louder squealed the bagpipes, their buzz filled the air, their shrieks
went ringing up to MacGuilp like the cries of Dante's condemned. The
duchess found the sound barbarous. MacGuilp opened his window, upon
which the pipers strained their lungs for the Signore Inglese, grand
amateur of the bagpipes. He begged them to go away. 'No, no, signore; we
know you love our music; we won't go away.'

The duchess could stand it no longer, her Servant called the carriage,
the English got in and drove off.

Still rung out the sounds of the six bagpipes. Caper threw them more
_baiocchi_.

Suddenly MacGuilp burst out of the door of his house, maul-stick in
hand, rushing on the pifferari to put them to flight.

'_Iddio giusto!_' shouted two of the pipers; 'it is, IT IS the
_Cacciatore_! the hunter; the Great Hunter!'

'He is a painter!' shouted another.

'No, he isn't; he's a hunter. _Gran Cacciatore!_ Doesn't he spend all
his time after quails and snipe and woodcock? Haven't I been out with
him day after day at Ostia? Long live the great hunter!'

MacGuilp was touched in a tender spot. The homage paid him as a great
hunter more than did away with his anger at the bagpipe serenade. And
the last Caper saw of him he was leading six pifferari into a wine shop,
where they would not come out until seven of them were unable to tell
the music of bagpipes from the music of the spheres.

So ends the music, noises, and voices, of the seven-hilled city.

SERMONS IN STONES.

One bright Sunday morning in January, Rocjean called on Caper to ask him
to improve the day by taking a walk.

'I thought of going up to the English chapel outside the Popolo to see a
pretty New Yorkeress,' said the latter; 'but the affair is not very
pressing, and I believe a turn round the Villa Borghese would do me as
much good as only looking at a pretty girl and half hearing a poor
sermon.'

'As for a sermon, we need not miss that,' answered Rocjean, 'for we will
stop in at Chapin the sculptor'