One little spider, about ten minutes old, lay in wait for these two tourist flies at the side door of the Cathedral with an offer to guide them, and though they sternly endeavoured to brush the insect aside, doubting his infantile capacity to direct their older intelligences, the Spider was not of the to-be-brushed-aside variety and knew better than they what they really needed. While they wandered through the vulgar uglinesses of Zosimus’ shrine, trying to recall Cicero’s glowing picture of the temple in its glory, he never took his claws off of them. While they talked of the great doors inlaid with gold and ivory, of the brazen spears, of the cella walls frescoed with the portraits and the battles of the Sikel Kings, of the pedestals between each column bearing images of the gods in ivory, silver, and bronze, the Spider was patient and merely murmured “Greco” or “molto antico” by way of encouraging chorus. He let them babble unchecked of the tall image of armed Pallas standing behind the altar, with plumed helmet and robe of Tyrian purple, grasping her great spear in her right hand and resting the left hand upon the golden shield that bore a sculptured Medusa head. Upon her pedestal was carved the cock, the dragon, and the serpent, and the altar before her was heaped with fresh olive boughs about the smouldering spices sending up wavering clouds of scented smoke that coiled among the ceiling’s gilded plates. Without, upon the roof, stood another great shield of gilded bronze, a beacon for sailors who, setting out upon long voyages, carried a cup of burning ashes from her altar to sprinkle on the waves as the glittering landmark faded down the sky. 150But when these reminiscences of the “molto antico” finally exhausted themselves, the Spider rose to his occasion. He was vague about Minerva, but Santa Lucia was his trump card. He was eminently capable of guiding any number of travellers to the chapel of that big swarthy idol adorned with wire-and-cotton wreaths, and hung about with votive silver hands and hearts, arms and legs, in grateful testimony of the limbs and organs cured by her mercy and power. He could pour out in burning Sicilian, illustrated by superb spidery gestures, a thrilling description of the yearly villegiatura of Syracuse’s patron saint. How twice in a twelvemonth she feels the need of change of air, and all the town attends her visit of a few days to the church beyond the bridge, she being escorted by priests and censors, and blaring bands, and wearing her finest jewels and toilet, as befits a lady on ceremonial travels. It is a festa for all Syracuse, Spider explains, with much good eating and “molto buono vino.”