“How old is it?” I asked, and then he told me and I gasped, for it was begun late in twelve hundred and finished in thirteen-hundred, fourteen. “Not so old for Florence,” said Mr. Wake, after my gasp, “you know the original Battistero, or Baptistery, was built probably in seventh or eighth century. It was remodeled to its present condition, practically, in 1200.” “No, I didn’t,” I said, and humbly. “Well, you’ve lots of time. And you’ll need it. There’s lots to see; the house where Dante lived, and the tomb of Galileo, and the grave of Mrs. Browning, and the literary landmarks--Thomas Hardy wrote things in this town, and George Eliot came here, and oh, ever so many more--and right before you in the middle of this square Savonarola was burned--” And I had to ask who he was; I knew that I had heard the name, but I am lots better at remembering faces then I am at remembering names. “The Billy Sunday of the year of our Lord, 1490,” said Mr. Wake, “who, after he had had more good art burned than has ever been produced since, displeased his followers, the Florentines, who tortured him--poor chap--and right over in that building, Jane--and then burned him.” “Why did he want the pictures burned?” I asked. “The subjects hadn’t any slickers on,” said Mr. Wake. “Feel anything here?” asked Mr. Wake, after we had been quiet a few minutes. “I feel as if I don’t matter much,” I answered. “That’s it. . . . The old building smiles scornfully, and says, ‘You will pass, but I shall stay!’” Then we walked across the square between the cabs and motors, with the crowd, made up of soldiers and officers, and the big policemen--the carabinieri--who wear flowing capes and feathers in their hats, and always travel in pairs. As we reached the other side Mr. Wake told me one more thing, and then took me home. I noticed a statue of a man who was carrying off a beautiful woman who struggled. There was lots of action in it; the girl looked as if she could play forward and the man looked as if he would be a whopper at the bat. Mr. Wake saw me looking at them and said: “That’s the way they did it in the old days, and, no doubt, had I lived then, I wouldn’t be a bachelor. . . . Would you like the story?” “Very _much_,” I answered.