“Speak respectfully of those honest barbarians,” exclaimed the Signora. “They were strong and brave, and some things they would not do for gain. Do you recollect that Alaric’s men, when they were sacking Rome, being told that certain vessels of silver and gold were sacred, belonging to the service of the church, took the treasure on their heads and carried it to St. Peter’s, the Romans falling into the procession, hymns mingling with their war-cries? Fancy Victor Emanuel’s people making restitution! Fancy Signor Bonghi and his associates marching in procession through the streets of Rome, bearing on their heads the libraries they have stolen from religious houses to make their grand library at the Roman College, which they have also stolen. Honor to the barbarians! There were things they respected. Ugh! what a flash. And what about cultivated thunders, Mr. Vane?” “Do you not know that there are thunders and thunders?” he replied. “Some roll like chariot-wheels from horizon to horizon, rattling and crashing, to be sure, but following a track. Others go clumsily tumbling about, without rhyme or reason, and you feel they may break through the roof any minute.” The rain fell in torrents, and came running in through chinks of the windows. The storm seemed to increase every moment. Bianca drew a footstool to the Signora’s side, and, seating herself on it, hid her face in her friend’s lap. Isabel sought refuge with her father, holding his arm closely, and they all became silent. Talk seems trivial in face of such a manifestation of the terrible strength of nature; and at night one is so much more impressed by a storm, all the little daylight securities falling off. They sat and waited, hoping that each sharp burst might be the culminating one. While they waited, suddenly through the storm broke loudly three clear strokes of a bell. “Oh!” cried Bianca, starting up. “_Fulgura frango_,” exclaimed the Signora triumphantly. Four strokes, five, and one followed with the sweet and deliberate strength of the great bell, then the others joined and sang through the night like a band of angels. “Brava, Maria Assunta!” exclaimed the Signora. “Where is the storm, Mr. Vane?” He did not answer. In fact, with the ceasing of the fifteen minutes’ ringing the storm ceased, and there was left only a low growling of spent thunders about the horizon, and a flutter of pallid light now and then. It was only the next morning at the breakfast-table that Mr. Vane thought to remark that the bell-ringer of the basilica must be a pretty good meteorologist, for he knew just when to strike in after the last great clap. “It was a most beautiful incident,” Bianca said seriously. “Please do not turn it into ridicule, papa!”