Besides the two venerable structures which we have described, there were lofty palaces, perhaps of as old a date, rising story above Story, and adorned with balconies, whence, hundreds of years ago, the princely occupants had been accustomed to gaze down at the sports, business, and popular assemblages of the piazza.  And, beyond all question, they thus witnessed the erection of a bronze statue, which, three centuries since, was placed on the pedestal that it still occupies.

“I never come to Perugia,” said Kenyon, “without spending as much time as I can spare in studying yonder statue of Pope Julius the Third.  Those sculptors of the Middle Age have fitter lessons for the professors of my art than we can find in the Grecian masterpieces.  They belong to our Christian civilization; and, being earnest works, they always express something which we do not get from the antique.  Will you look at it?”

“Willingly,” replied the Count, “for I see, even so far off, that the statue is bestowing a benediction, and there is a feeling in my heart that I may be permitted to share it.”

Remembering the similar idea which Miriam a short time before had expressed, the sculptor smiled hopefully at the coincidence.  They made their way through the throng of the market place, and approached close to the iron railing that protected the pedestal of the statue.

It was the figure of a pope, arrayed in his pontifical robes, and crowned with the tiara.  He sat in a bronze chair, elevated high above the pavement, and seemed to take kindly yet authoritative cognizance of the busy scene which was at that moment passing before his eye.  His right hand was raised and spread abroad, as if in the act of shedding forth a benediction, which every man—­so broad, so wise, and so serenely affectionate was the bronze pope’s regard—­might hope to feel quietly descending upon the need, or the distress, that he had closest at his heart.  The statue had life and observation in it, as well as patriarchal majesty.  An imaginative spectator could not but be impressed with the idea that this benignly awful representative of divine and human authority might rise from his brazen chair, should any great public exigency demand his interposition, and encourage or restrain the people by his gesture, or even by prophetic utterances worthy of so grand a presence.

And in the long, calm intervals, amid the quiet lapse of ages, the pontiff watched the daily turmoil around his seat, listening with majestic patience to the market cries, and all the petty uproar that awoke the echoes of the stately old piazza.  He was the enduring friend of these men, and of their forefathers and children, the familiar face of generations.

“The pope’s blessing, methinks, has fallen upon you,” observed the sculptor, looking at his friend.