Returning from Saint Peter's, Rocjean proposed to walk through the Trastevere, the other side of the Tiber, and to cross over the river by the ponte Rotto or broken bridge. They found the street along the river very quiet; here and there a light showed, as on the other side, a wine-shop or coffee-room; but the houses had few lights in them, and spite of the moonlight, the streets looked gloomy and desolate. 'They seem to keep dark this side of the river,' said Caper. 'Yes,' answered Rocjean, 'and live light. They go to bed for the most part early, and rise early; they economize fifty-one weeks in a year, in order to live like lords for the fifty-second--that is Carnival-week. Then you shall see these queenly Trasteverine in all their bravery, thronging the Corso. But here is a clean-looking wine-shop, let us go in and have a foglietta.' They found the shop full of thirsty Romans--it is safe to say that--although the number of small flasks showed they could not indulge their taste so deeply as they wished to. The centre of the listening group of Romans, was a bright-eyed, black, curly-haired man, who was reciting, with loud emphasis: THE LIFE AND DEATH OF THE PERFIDIOUS ASSASSIN, ARRIGO GARBETINGO OF TRENTO, Who slew nine hundred and sixty-four grown persons and six children. He had already got through his birth and wicked childhood, and had arrived at that impressive part where he commences his career of brigand at large, accompanied by a 'bool-dog': 'He had a bull-dog of the English breed, oh! More savage than all others that we've seen, oh! Close at his side it always walked, indeed, oh! And never barked! but then his bite was keen, oh! When on some poor man straight he sprung, take heed, oh! His soul from body quickly fled, I ween, oh! Because with cruel, gnashing teeth he tore, oh! Him all to pieces, in a manner sore, oh!' The reciter here stopped to drink another tumbler of wine, upon which Caper and Rocjean, having finished their pint, paid their scot and departed. 'Was that an improvisatore?' asked Caper. 'He might pass for such with a stranger of inflammable imagination, who didn't know the language,' answered Rocjean. 'He is, in fact, a reciter, and you can buy the poh, poh-em he was reciting at any of the country fairs, of the man who sells rosaries and crucifixes. It is one of the cent-songs of the Papal States, published _con licenza_, with license; and a more cruel, disgusting, filthy, and demoralizing tendency than it must have on the people can not well be imagined; and there are hundreds of worse.' While Rocjean was talking they had crossed the ponte Rotto, and as he finished his sentence they stood in front of the ruined house of--Cola di Rienzil, 'Redeemer of dark centuries of shame--the hope of Italy, Rienzi, last of Romans!'