Then, with his arm around her shoulder, and hers drawn round his waist, they walked through the garden of rest to the gate where the angel of Publicity threatened such proceeding with a flaming and respectable sword. * * * * * _The Meditations of Pietro._ ‘The sun is very yellow and hot here by the side of the water, and the flies are like to a hundred devils on my good Nicolas--Ugh! Pighead, what good to shake thy bell! It is not good sitting here, for I have only money for one--two--three--yes, for four drinkings, in my pouch, and the last a little one, and the day is hot. Eleven of the clock, for there begins the morning tolling from San Felice. Where be these fools of strangers? There be many things to see, also my chariot is very strong, and beautiful exceedingly, and my good grey Nicolas, is he not a most willing puller, being still young and lusty? Yet, forsooth, because it is the Sabbath, they will not stir forth--these fools--but sit at home in sad garments, and eat, thinking to make the day holy. ‘Ai! What are these? Can it be they are coming? Ai--Ai--_si signore, si, si, signora, si, si, si.... This_ is several drinkings; moreover they appear to be English. A very curious peoples, the English--for some reason known only of God they speak to me in French, as if I, Pietro, understood French, forsooth. However, it is all the same thing; the _he_ waves his hat to the West, and says--“_San Felice_;”--now San Felice is in the South;--the _she_ says “_Campenella_,” and does not wave anythings,--decidedly she is the more intelligent; and I, Pietro, the most intelligent of all, for I nod my top once, twice, three times strongly, and say “San Felice, si, si,” and beat my grey, and lo! we are off, and they have forgotten to bargain. Ho! A very curious peoples! ‘And yet, now that I regard, perhaps I have done to the English an injustice. _These_ are no doubt mad, they have a very queer look, their eyes are all shiny, and they sit very close together, though even I, Pietro, am hot, sitting up here alone on the head of my chariot. ‘Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, sighs my old friend the bell, as Nicolas shakes his ears at the road; _si, si, amico_, it is long, and it is white, and--pouff--dusty, and in places even steep. ‘Yes, now I know for a certainty they are mad; it is not for them the road either too long or too steep or too dusty; they only sit like coo-doves, and the _he_ sighs, and every now and then he starts upon his feet, greatly endangering his neck, and points with his fist, and says, “Look, Carissima, how grand, how _beaut_iful!”