The riotous interchange of nosegays and confetti was partially suspended, while the procession passed.  One well-directed shot, however,—­it was a double handful of powdered lime, flung by an impious New Englander,—­hit the coachman of the Roman Senator full in the face, and hurt his dignity amazingly.  It appeared to be his opinion that the Republic was again crumbling into ruin, and that the dust of it now filled his nostrils; though, in fact, it would hardly be distinguished from the official powder with which he was already plentifully bestrewn.

While the sculptor, with his dreamy eyes, was taking idle note of this trifling circumstance, two figures passed before him, hand in hand.  The countenance of each was covered with an impenetrable black mask; but one seemed a peasant of the Campagna; the other, a contadina in her holiday costume.

CHAPTER XLIX

A FROLIC OF THE CARNIVAL

The crowd and confusion, just at that moment, hindered the sculptor from pursuing these figures,—­the peasant and contadina,—­who, indeed, were but two of a numerous tribe that thronged the Corso, in similar costume.  As soon as he could squeeze a passage, Kenyon tried to follow in their footsteps, but quickly lost sight of them, and was thrown off the track by stopping to examine various groups of masqueraders, in which he fancied the objects of his search to be included.  He found many a sallow peasant or herdsman of the Campagna, in such a dress as Donatello wore; many a contadina, too, brown, broad, and sturdy, in her finery of scarlet, and decked out with gold or coral beads, a pair of heavy earrings, a curiously wrought cameo or mosaic brooch, and a silver comb or long stiletto among her glossy hair.  But those shapes of grace and beauty which he sought had vanished.

As soon as the procession of the Senator had passed, the merry-makers resumed their antics with fresh spirit, and the artillery of bouquets and sugar plums, suspended for a moment, began anew.  The sculptor himself, being probably the most anxious and unquiet spectator there, was especially a mark for missiles from all quarters, and for the practical jokes which the license of the Carnival permits.  In fact, his sad and contracted brow so ill accorded with the scene, that the revellers might be pardoned for thus using him as the butt of their idle mirth, since he evidently could not otherwise contribute to it.

Fantastic figures, with bulbous heads, the circumference of a bushel, grinned enormously in his face.  Harlequins struck him with their wooden swords, and appeared to expect his immediate transformation into some jollier shape.  A little, long-tailed, horned fiend sidled up to him and suddenly blew at him through a tube, enveloping our poor friend in a whole harvest of winged seeds.  A biped, with an ass’s snout, brayed close to his ear, ending his discordant uproar with a peal of human laughter.  Five strapping damsels—­so, at least, their petticoats bespoke them, in spite of an awful freedom in the flourish of their legs—­joined hands, and danced around him, inviting him by their gestures to perform a hornpipe in the midst.  Released from these gay persecutors, a clown in motley rapped him on the back with a blown bladder, in which a handful of dried peas rattled horribly.