In an old Tuscan villa, a chapel ordinarily makes one among the numerous apartments; though it often happens that the door is permanently closed, the key lost, and the place left to itself, in dusty sanctity, like that chamber in man’s heart where he hides his religious awe.  This was very much the case with the chapel of Monte Beni.  One rainy day, however, in his wanderings through the great, intricate house, Kenyon had unexpectedly found his way into it, and been impressed by its solemn aspect.  The arched windows, high upward in the wall, and darkened with dust and cobweb, threw down a dim light that showed the altar, with a picture of a martyrdom above, and some tall tapers ranged before it.  They had apparently been lighted, and burned an hour or two, and been extinguished perhaps half a century before.  The marble vase at the entrance held some hardened mud at the bottom, accruing from the dust that had settled in it during the gradual evaporation of the holy water; and a spider (being an insect that delights in pointing the moral of desolation and neglect) had taken pains to weave a prodigiously thick tissue across the circular brim.  An old family banner, tattered by the moths, drooped from the vaulted roof.  In niches there were some mediaeval busts of Donatello’s forgotten ancestry; and among them, it might be, the forlorn visage of that hapless knight between whom and the fountain-nymph had occurred such tender love passages.

Throughout all the jovial prosperity of Monte Beni, this one spot within the domestic walls had kept itself silent, stern, and sad.  When the individual or the family retired from song and mirth, they here sought those realities which men do not invite their festive associates to share.  And here, on the occasion above referred to, the sculptor had discovered—­accidentally, so far as he was concerned, though with a purpose on her part—­that there was a guest under Donatello’s roof, whose presence the Count did not suspect.  An interview had since taken place, and he was now summoned to another.

He crossed the chapel, in compliance with Tomaso’s instructions, and, passing through the side entrance, found himself in a saloon, of no great size, but more magnificent than he had supposed the villa to contain.  As it was vacant, Kenyon had leisure to pace it once or twice, and examine it with a careless sort of scrutiny, before any person appeared.

This beautiful hall was floored with rich marbles, in artistically arranged figures and compartments.  The walls, likewise, were almost entirely cased in marble of various kinds, the prevalent, variety being giallo antico, intermixed with verd-antique, and others equally precious.  The splendor of the giallo antico, however, was what gave character to the saloon; and the large and deep niches, apparently intended for full length statues, along the walls, were lined with the same costly material.  Without visiting Italy, one can have no idea of the beauty and magnificence