populated, unavoidably became thoroughfares, and no doubt, to a certain extent, the haunts of all classes. Through the teeming Subura, then, we will follow our two characters. They each threaded their way after their own manner. The knight, slim, supple, and quick, slipped along like an eel, avoiding all contact and gliding through every opening with the accustomed ease of a person city bred. On the other hand the Subura was the home of Cestus, to whom every nook and corner was familiar. This fact, combined with his superior weight and bulk, rendered his movements more careless and independent of passers‐by, some of whom came into collision with him, to their own sorrow. He was, moreover, recognised by more than one fellow inhabitant as he passed along. Two or three fellows, as idle and rough looking as himself, leered knowingly at him from the open front of a wine‐shop where they were lounging. Another one nodded and winked to him from out of a reeking, steaming cook‐shop where he was munching a light meal of the simplest character. Among the many street idlers, one greasy vagabond, with an evil, bloated face, went so far as to catch his arm and whisper, with a coarse laugh, ‘What, Cestus, boy, hast hooked thy patron? Thou wilt come back like a prince!’ But Cestus shook him off, and having cleared the Subura, he and his patron entered on a less crowded path, and the short, steep ascent of the Esquiline Hill. At the summit they passed a statue of Orpheus. He was represented playing on the lyre to a group of wild animals, exquisitely modelled in the attitudes of rapt attention to the inspired music. The group was placed in the centre of a large circular basin for the reception of the spray, which usually danced and sparkled from the head of the immortal musician. On this day, however, for some reason, the fountain was dry. As he passed, the knight turned round, and, pointing with his finger to draw his follower’s attention to the fact, said, with a cold smile, ‘My Cestus, when you likened the supply of my funds to the feeding of that fountain, you made a bad comparison—it is a bad omen, good and faithful man. Do you accept it?—I do.’ Cestus was in no way behind the age in superstition. ‘Humph!’ muttered he, bestowing a parting glance at the dry figures and empty basin; ‘plague on the aediles for falling short of water just at this time! No matter—water, or no water! omen, or no omen! I shall still remain a faithful client to my patron.’ And he followed on with a grin. After proceeding another hundred yards Afer stopped before the porch of a dwelling, small and modest, but pleasantly situated, overlooking no small portion of the city. ‘Step in, man, and drink a cup of wine while we arrange terms,’ said he, with ironical politeness. But some suspicion was awakened in the breast of the other and he did not stir. ‘Bring it to me—I will wait here,’ said Cestus, with a shake of his head. ‘But you have not told me what you want.’