At length the plumed steeds turned into the Sicilian quarter, and the bridal pair could see the Gothic façade of San Patrizio a block away. At this stage the march lost its triumphal flavour. They had entered the enemy’s country. Here the dusky women at windows breathed no auguries of good fortune, and the white-shirted men on the sidewalk, idling in their Sunday best, had no “bravo” for the distinguished bridegroom. For about half the distance the Genovese and his Neapolitan were permitted to pass in respect if not in love. Doubtless this silent show of bad blood would have continued unbroken till the church portals were reached, but for the act of a certain earringed fellow who stood on a low balcony. In the long ago his eyes had seen Humbert, and now he was struck so hard with the resemblance borne him by the man in the carriage that, in a voice ringing sharp to a hundred ears, he shouted: “Long live the king!” (“_Evviva il re!_”) All within earshot laughed as they saw the aptness of the gibe, and, while the barouche moved along slowly, a dozen tongues by turns re-echoed the cry with derisive resonance: “Long live the king!” It would have been difficult to tell from the faces of Juno and Signor Di Bello whether they were pleased or offended. Among the few who cried out was a young man in black velveteen coat and flowing cravat. His pallid face was serious, had a puzzled look, and _his_ “Long live the king!” did not smack of mockery. He fell in beside the carriage, and kept up with it, though with one hand he lugged a large valise. Twice he tripped and almost fell in his effort to follow without taking his eyes off Juno. When the carriage stopped he stood at the curbstone as though enchained, fascinated by the sight of her, and stared half in bewilderment as Signor Di Bello with a grand, knightly grace, helped her to alight. Then he ran ahead, set down his valise, and stood at the church door. As they passed in, his gaze still fixed upon her and his hands clasped ecstatically, he exclaimed in a voice that all could hear; “O beautiful signora! How happy I am! The marble does not lie!” “Soul of an ostrich!” gasped Signor Di Bello, clutching the little silver-tipped horn against the evil eye which he had added to his watch chain that morning. “What the kangaroo does he mean?”