Away again upon the quick wing of thought, I follow our steps, as after weeks of wandering, we gained once more a height that overlooked the Campagna—and saw the sun setting on its edge, throwing into relief the dome of St. Peter’s, and blazing in a red stripe upon the waters of the Tiber. Below us was Palestrina—the Præneste of the poets and philosophers; the dwelling place of—I know not how many—emperors. We went straggling through the dirty streets, searching for some tidy-looking osteria. At length we found an old lady who could give us a bed, but no dinner. My friend dropped in a chair disheartened. A snub-looking priest came out to condole with us. And could Palestrina—the _frigidum Præneste_ of Horace, which had entertained over and over, the noblest of the Colonna, and the most noble Adrian—could Palestrina not furnish a dinner to a tired traveler? “_Si, Signore_,” said the snub-looking priest. “_Si, Signorino_,” said the neat old lady; and away we went upon a new search. And we found bright and happy faces; especially the little girl of twelve years, who came close by me as I ate, and afterward strung a garland of marigolds, and put it on my head. Then there was a bright-eyed boy of fourteen, who wrote his name, and those of the whole family, upon a fly-leaf of my book; and a pretty, saucy-looking girl of sixteen, who peeped a long time from behind the kitchen door, but before the evening was gone, she was in the chair beside me, and had written her name—Carlotta—upon the first leaf of my journal. When I woke, the sun was up. From my bed I could see over the town, the thin, lazy mists lying on the old camp-ground of Pyrrhus; beyond it were the mountains, which hide Frascati, and Monte-Cavi. There was old Colonna, too, that— Like an eagle’s nest, hangs on the crest Of purple Appenine. As the mist lifted, and the sun brightened the plain, I could see the road, along which Sylla came fuming and maddened after the Mithridaten war. I could see, as I half dreamed and half slept, the frightened peasantry whooping to their long-horned cattle, as they drove them on tumultuously up through the gateways of the town; and women with babies in their arms, and children scowling with fear and hate—all trooping fast and madly, to escape the hand of the Avenger; alas! ineffectually, for Sylla murdered them, and pulled down the walls of their town—the proud Palestrina. I had a queer fancy of seeing the nobles of Rome, led on by Stefano Colonna, grouping along the plain, their corslets flashing out of the mists—their pennants dashing above it—coming up fast, and still as the wind, to make the Mural Præneste, their stronghold against the Last of the Tribunes. And strangely mingling fiction with fact, I saw the brother of Walter de Montreal, with his noisy and bristling army, crowd over the Campagna, and put up his white tents, and hang out his showy banners, on the grassy knolls that lay nearest my eye.