Beyond the church, serene in the moonlight, as if a spirit of the eternal chiding men for their vain turmoil, rose the ancient colonnade of San Lorenzo, the only large fragment of her remote past that Milan possesses. The great Corinthian columns had stood there since the third century, when “Mediolanum,” second only to Rome, was affluent in the dignity and beauty of an imperial city. An orator of the quarter, sowing discontent, once made use of the noble relic to point a moral. “There are two sorts of ruins, my comrades,” he said; “one is the work of time, the other of men.” The place for which Tarsis was making lay a little farther on. It was a café of the cheap and gaudy grade; its large front windows bore the legend in yellow and green, “Café of the Ancient Colonnade.” Before he could traverse the Corso there swung into view from another street a vociferous collection of men and women marching without order of line. They were the striking silk-workers. Tarsis had no taste for breaking through their ranks, which he must have done to reach the point upon which he had his eye. He waited until they had gone by. They made a great hubbub with their songs and outcries against facts of the existing order. At their head a blacksmith bore a huge banner inscribed “Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Men and Women.” Scattered through the jumbled mass of marchers were placards bearing such declarations as: “We are the golden geese.” “We want more of the golden eggs.” “Down with the tax on bread.” “Down with Tarsis and his gang.” From windows and sidewalk the onlookers filled the air with their shouts of “Bravo!” Now and then a group of them would join the marchers. One placard read, “We Are the Heart-blood of Wealth,” but to Tarsis the demonstration did not seem a pulse-beat of society; in his view it was merely another howl from the ungrateful proletariat. He was annoyed because he had to wait and indignant that the authorities did not put a stop to the incendiary display. In due course it was broken up by the carbineers--_ultima ratio legis_. Grape shot was scattered freely, undertakers enjoyed a revival of trade, and the wards of the General Hospital were over-crowded. Tarsis heard the firing from a distance, and thought it high time the authorities took the case in hand. The last of the marching mob had passed before that act of the drama was played, leaving him free to cross to the Café of the Ancient Colonnade.