One of the towers, rough as any other, was topped by a cross—­the tower of the Collegiate Church of Santa Deodata.  She was a holy maiden of the Dark Ages, the city’s patron saint, and sweetness and barbarity mingle strangely in her story.  So holy was she that all her life she lay upon her back in the house of her mother, refusing to eat, refusing to play, refusing to work.  The devil, envious of such sanctity, tempted her in various ways.  He dangled grapes above her, he showed her fascinating toys, he pushed soft pillows beneath her aching head.  When all proved vain he tripped up the mother and flung her downstairs before her very eyes.  But so holy was the saint that she never picked her mother up, but lay upon her back through all, and thus assured her throne in Paradise.  She was only fifteen when she died, which shows how much is within the reach of any school-girl.  Those who think her life was unpractical need only think of the victories upon Poggibonsi, San Gemignano, Volterra, Siena itself—­all gained through the invocation of her name; they need only look at the church which rose over her grave.  The grand schemes for a marble facade were never carried out, and it is brown unfinished stone until this day.  But for the inside Giotto was summoned to decorate the walls of the nave.  Giotto came—­that is to say, he did not come, German research having decisively proved—­but at all events the nave is covered with frescoes, and so are two chapels in the left transept, and the arch into the choir, and there are scraps in the choir itself.  There the decoration stopped, till in the full spring of the Renaissance a great painter came to pay a few weeks’ visit to his friend the Lord of Monteriano.  In the intervals between the banquets and the discussions on Latin etymology and the dancing, he would stroll over to the church, and there in the fifth chapel to the right he has painted two frescoes of the death and burial of Santa Deodata.  That is why Baedeker gives the place a star.

Santa Deodata was better company than Harriet, and she kept Philip in a pleasant dream until the legno drew up at the hotel.  Every one there was asleep, for it was still the hour when only idiots were moving.  There were not even any beggars about.  The cabman put their bags down in the passage—­they had left heavy luggage at the station—­and strolled about till he came on the landlady’s room and woke her, and sent her to them.

Then Harriet pronounced the monosyllable “Go!”

“Go where?” asked Philip, bowing to the landlady, who was swimming down the stairs.

“To the Italian.  Go.”

“Buona sera, signora padrona.  Si ritorna volontieri a Monteriano!” (Don’t be a goose.  I’m not going now.  You’re in the way, too.) “Vorrei due camere—­”

“Go.  This instant.  Now.  I’ll stand it no longer.  Go!”

“I’m damned if I’ll go.  I want my tea.”

“Swear if you like!” she cried.  “Blaspheme!  Abuse me!  But understand, I’m in earnest.”