and magistracies of the city, thought more of the
regularity and fair proportions of his own work
than of preserving the work of his predecessors
And the venerable old church, once glorious will
its three grand naves, its cloister, its cemetery
its infinite number of sepulchral monuments in
scribed with the records of the old fathers of the
republic, was pared away, and hustled, and built
up, and effectually hidden by the fine new Palladian,
or rather Vasarian front of the new building
The door of the diminished church— now church
no more— fashioned to match the other doors
under the colonnade, and like them opening of
it, is rarely opened now. When the persons ol
this history were living and making the misery
of each other by their vices, passions, and follies,
the new door of the old church more frequently
stood open, and St. Peter in the Ditch, though
hidden as now, was sufficiently well known to
the Florentines; church-going made a much
larger part of the daily life in Florence in those
days than it does in these.

It was the vigil of some festival. A few long
slender candles on the principal altar, and here
and there the glimmer of a lamp hanging before
an image of the Virgin, barely prevented the
church from being in total darkness. Yet there
was a congregation of worshippers, and a drowsy
hum of litanies rose and fell on the ear in the
cadences of a monotonous chant. In the immediate
vicinity of the scattered shrine-lamps there
was a little oasis of feeble light, within the circumference
of which the features of some hood-shadowed
face were rendered visible, or the bald
crown of some aged penitent glistened white as
the twinkling ray rested on it. But the remoter
parts of the church lay in deep shadow; infinite
were the capricious effects of light and
shade produced by the multiform irregularities,
projecting pilasters, receding chapels, and isolated
columns of the building; and strangely picturesque
the uncertain outline of groups and
figures in the dim chiaroscuro. The majority of
those present were doubtless there for a religious
object, for the earning that is— cheaply enough,
inasmuch as no domestic circle or pleasant occupation
was deserted for the purpose, and lamp-oil
was saved the while— of the indulgences promised
as the reward of attendance there. But the
social habits of that period were such as to amply
justify the statement that many of the dimly
visible figures who lurked behind pillars, or
crouched on the steps of distant altars, were intent
on matters calculated to make future penance
necessary, rather than on performing that due for
former sins. In either case it was all good for
the trade of the place, and these chiaroscuro
services, despite the notorious scandals to which
they gave rise, were accordingly much in favour
with the priesthood.

Among those who were evidently not there to
pray, nor even to take part in the mechanical
routine which passed for praying, was, on the
evening in question, a thickly-veiled female figure,
which had posted itself in the shadow of a column
just outside the edge of one of the light-circles
that have been described. There were several
places vacant on the faldstools, on which the
light fell just in front of her; but she preferred
to remain standing in the obscurity. It was
observable, too, that she was entirely alone; a
solecism in the etiquette of the period, which
no woman of respectable position, whatever her
general conduct or special errand, permitted herself.
It seemed, too, as if she had ventured on
this step for the purpose of meeting some one,
for her glance was continually turned towards
the door with a movement indicative of nervous
expectation. Many quitted the church, or
entered it, and passed on to places in distant
parts of it. Still the veiled figure kept her post
impassibly in the shade of her column; so it
was evident that, if she were really waiting for
somebody, she was sure that the expected person
would come to the spot at which she had taken
up her station.

At length two women entered, and came
straight to the seats in the light in front of the
veiled figure. No sooner had they reached the
spot where the light fell on their features, than
it became evident that they were, or that one of
them was, the object of her watch. Both the
new comers, the mistress and the maid, for such
they clearly were, were young and handsome, the
former very eminently so. Crossing themselves,
they kneeled at one of the faldstools, and at
once proceeded methodically to recite the appointed
offices; while the woman who had been
awaiting their coming, stretching forward her
head from out the shadow, gazed intently on
the lovely face before her. For a while she
seemed entirely absorbed in the contemplation
of it. Then suddenly drawing up her figure,
and throwing up her eyes with an expression of
earnest prayer, her lips moved with some words
of eager supplication that assuredly were not
written in hymn-book or missal; and suddenly,
with a swift movement, she knelt by the side of
the beautiful young woman she had been observing
with so strange an expression. And turning
her face towards her so that her lips were within
a few inches of the other's ear, but still keeping
her veil down, in a deep whisper she said through
lier closed teeth:

"Caterina Canacci, daughter of Pasquale Bassi,
the dyer, I, Veronica, Duchess of San Giuliano,
am here to warn you. In mercy I warn you,
though no mercy have you deserved from me, and
none shall you find, if the warning be in vain.
Base-born! You have dared to contaminate with
our mercenary love a noble family. Now listen!
If the duke come again to your house of infamy,
so use the meeting that it be the last. Should he
come a second time, and you admit him within
your door .... pass quickly to your shrift, for
your doom will have been signed. I, the wife of
Jacopo Salviati now pronounce it, and will exeute it."

Having thus spoken, she rose from her knees
and hurried from the church.