Casciano is a picturesque spot, whose baths were at one time in great repute, and the legend connected with the discovery of its boiling springs interested me not a little. The Empress Matilda, it would appear, who was devoted to the sport of hawking, possessed a falcon of uncommon skill and beauty, whose constant perch was on the Imperial wrist. Suddenly the favourite began to droop and shed its feathers, and to show signs of some malady more severe than the usual moulting of birds. Unable to carry on its vocation or to join in its beloved mistress’s cherished sport, the poor falcon hung its head, disfigured and ashamed. One morning the bird was missing, and could not be traced, and much surprise was expressed that the diminished pinions should have had sufficient strength to ensure its flight. Time passed, and the “tasset gentle” was supplanted but not replaced in the heart of the royal sportswoman. But one day, when on a grand hawking expedition, the Empress had just let fly her falcon in search of its quarry—lo! a miracle: perching on her wrist, pluming itself, and nodding and bowing, with all the grace of which a bird can be capable, and all the loyalty of a devoted subject, was the long lost one. A recurrence of the falcon’s indisposition, and a restlessness which seemed to foretell an inclination to absent itself once more, caused the Empress to issue her commands that the bird should be watched. It seems difficult to imagine how her wishes were carried out, but we must suppose that the will of that Imperial lady was omnipotent. At all events, the story goes (and who would question so romantic a legend) that the winged invalid was found bathing in the warm springs of Casciano, and after this voluntary cure, found its way back in renovated health and plumage to the Court of its noble mistress, thereby laying claim to being the founder and patron of the baths in question. [Sidenote: LEGEND OF THE FALCON] Oh! it is hard, even in retrospective thought, to tear one’s self away from those blissful days which were prolonged late into the autumn, when the Apennines so often assume that rich colouring of Imperial purple, illumined by golden sunlight, which adds fresh lustre to the environs of Florence. To that city we made our next move, and took up our abode in a house in the Santa Croce quarter, between which and the Casa Fenzi, in Piazza Santa Maria Novella, where Lady Moore and her daughter were now located, there was constant intercourse, until the _sposa_ and her mother left for Rome, and my brother Charles took his departure for England. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXIII RESIDENCE IN FLORENCE—CHARLES LEVER—REVOLUTION, AND THE BROWNINGS