There is, of course, a legend attached to the Palazzo Feroni, and it is as follows: IL PALAZZO FERONI. “The Signore Pietro, who afterwards received the name Feroni, was a very rich man, and yet hated by the poor, on whom he bestowed nothing, and not much liked by his equals, though he gave them costly entertainments; for there was in all the man and in his character something inconsistent and contradictory, or of _corna contra croce_—‘the horns against the cross,’ as the proverb hath it, which made it so that one never knew where to have him: “‘Un, al monte, e l’altro al pian, Quel che, è oggi, non è doman.’ “‘On the hill in joy, in the dale in sorrow— One thing to-day, and another to-morrow.’ “For to take him at every point, there was something to count off. Thus in all the city there was no one—according to his own declaration—who was Richer or more prosperous, Or who had enjoyed a better education, Or who had such remarkable general knowledge of everything taking place, Or more of a distinguished courtier, Or one with such a train of dependants, and people of all kinds running after him, Or more generally accomplished, Or better looking— “And finally, no one so physically strong, as he was accustomed to boast to everybody on first acquaintance, and give them proofs of it—he having heard somewhere that ‘physical force makes a deeper impression than courtesy.’ But all these fine gifts failed to inspire respect (and here was another puzzle in his nature), either because he was so tremendously vain that he looked down on all mortals as so many insects, and all pretty much alike as compared to himself, or else from a foolish carelessness and want of respect, he made himself quite as familiar with trivial people as with anybody. {213} “One evening the Signore Pietro gave a grand ball in his palace, and as the guests came in—the beauty and grace and courtly style of all Italy in its golden time—he half closed his eyes, lazily looking at the brilliant swarm of human butterflies and walking flowers, despising while admiring them, though if he had been asked to give a reason for his contempt he would have been puzzled, not having any great amount of self-respect for himself. And they spun round and round in the dance. . . . “When all at once he saw among the guests a lady, unknown to him, of such striking and singular appearance as to rouse him promptly from his idle thought. She was indeed wonderfully beautiful, but what was very noticeable was her absolutely ivory white complexion, which hardly seemed human, her profuse black silken hair; and most of all her unearthly large jet-black eyes, of incredible brilliancy, with such a strange expression as neither the Signore Pietro nor any one else present had ever seen before. There was a power in them, a kind of basilisk-fascination allied to angelic sweetness—fire and ice . . . _ostra e tramontan_—a hot and cold wind.