On this May morning Rome shone resplendent under the caressing sun. Here
a fountain lit up with its silvery laughter a little piazzetta still
plunged in shadow; there the open gates of a palace disclosed a vista of
courtyard with a background of portico and statues; from the baroque
architecture of a brick church hung the decorations for the month of
Mary. Under the bridge, the Tiber gleamed and glistened as it hurried
away between the gray-green houses towards the island of San Bartolomeo.
After a short ascent, the whole city spread out before them, immense,
imperial, radiant, bristling with spires and columns and obelisks,
crowned with cupolas and rotundas, clean cut out of the blue like a
citadel.
'_Ave Roma, moriturus te salutat!_' exclaimed Andrea Sperelli, throwing
away the end of his cigarette. 'Though, to tell the truth, my dear
fellows.' he added, 'a sword-thrust would decidedly inconvenience me
this morning.'
They had reached the Villa Sciarra, already partially profaned by the
builders of modern houses, and were passing through an avenue of tall
and slender laurels bordered by hedges of roses. Santa Margherita,
putting his head out of the window, caught sight of another carriage
standing in the drive before the villa.
'They are waiting for us,' he said.
He consulted his watch--ten minutes yet to the hour agreed upon.
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