heels, ever threatening to ride them down. They ran, ran, puffing, panting, sweating, apoplectic; for to the end that they might nigh burst with stitches in the side had a brilliant organizer of the _fête_ stuffed them full with preliminary meat. Oh, droll! oh, delicious! oh, rare for Antony! And now a young man noticeable by his emaciated face and his premature baldness was drawing to the front amid ironic cheers. When the grotesque racers had passed by, noble cavaliers displayed their dexterity at the quintain, and beautiful ladies at the balconies--not masked, as in France, but radiantly revealed--changed their broad smiles to the subtler smiles of dalliance. And then suddenly the storm broke--happy ally of the _fête_--jocosely drenching the semi-nude runners. On, on they sped, breathless, blind, gasping, befouled by mud, and bruised by missiles, with the horses' hoofs grazing their heels; on, on along the thousand yards of the endless course; on, on, sodden and dripping and stumbling. They were nearing the goal. They had already passed San Marco, the old goal. The young Jew was still leading, but a fat old Jew pressed him close. The excitement of the crowd redoubled. A thousand mocking voices encouraged the rivals. They were on the bridge. The Castle of St. Angelo, whose bastions were named after the Apostles, was in sight. The fat old Jew drew closer, anxious, now that he was come so far, to secure the thirty-six crowns that the prize might be sold for. But the favorite made a mighty spurt. He passed the Pope's window, and the day was his. The firmament rang with laughter as the other candidates panted up. A great yell greeted the fall of the fat old man in the roadway, where he lay prostrate. An official tendered the winner the _pallio_ which was the prize--a piece of red Venetian cloth. The young Jew took it, surveying it with a strange, unfathomable gaze, but the Judge interposed. "The captain of the soldiers tells me they did not start fair at the Arch. They must run again to-morrow." This was a favorite device for prolonging the fun. But the winner's eyes blazed ominously. "Nay, but we started as balls shot from a falconet." "Peace, peace, return him the _pallio_," whispered a racer behind him, tugging apprehensively at his one garment. "They always adjudge it again to the first winner." But the young man was reckless. "Why did not the captain stop us, then?" he asked. "Keep thy tongue between thy dog's teeth," retorted the Judge. "In any event the race must be run again, for the law ordains eight runners as a minimum." "We are eight," replied the young Jew. The Judge glared at the rebel; then, striking each rueful object with a stick, he counted out, "One--two--three--four--five--six--seven!" "Eight," persisted the young man, perceiving for the first time the old Jew on the ground behind him, and stooping to raise him. "That creature! Basta! He does not count. He is drunk."