true religion is to overcredit it; and that, where people believe in a miracle, to give them a glib hundred is to tempt them to infidelity.  Because it might be true, as I undoubtedly believe it to be, that St. Francis of Assisi floated between pavement and rafters, that were no reason for pronouncing that Santa Caterina de’ Ricci could stroke the chimney-pots; or if one thought it possible that St. Antony of Padua preached to the fishes of the sea, I contend that one would not be supported, but rather discouraged, in the opinion by hearing that Santa Caterina de’ Ricci argued with eels in the stew-pan.  But the melancholy fact remains to be told that, haranguing all day long, the wilder grew the anecdotes of Palamone, the brisker was his trade.  Virginia also, I freely own, acted her part superbly, with a lisp and a trick of sucking her fingers for one batch, an “O la!” for another, which brought in showers of purchasers.  She presently took a fit of bargaining—­by mere caprice, I believe—­in which she was so keen that she beat down Fra Palamone to half his prices and set an example which made him desperately angry.  As for me, I fell into entire disgrace almost at the outset, for when an old countryman asked me whether it was true that Roses of Sharon were good for the stone, unthinkingly I replied that prayer was better.  “Cospetto!” cried my man, “and cheaper too!  Many thanks to you for an honest young gentleman.”  Fra Palamone ordered me to resume my old part of deaf-mute.

The procession of the day, which, of course, put an end to all marketing for the time, began at half after ten, with High Mass set for eleven o’clock.  It was a pompous business—­the nuns of San Vincenzio, two and two, with lighted tapers; their friends of the world, ladies in hoops and feathers, attendant cavaliers; Donna Violante, widow of the Grand Prince Ferdinand, deceased—­a stout black-eyed woman of middle age, under-dressed and over-painted.  She had a court about her of half a dozen gentlemen, twice that number of ladies, and three black boys to hold her train.  Donna Camilla Pallavicini may have been there, but I did not see her.  The clergy followed, then the bishop with his chaplains, train-bearer and acolytes; torch-bearers next; and then the casket containing the body of the saint under a heavy crimson canopy.  Friars of St. Dominic’s religion closed a very fine procession.

Having myself a fair musical ear, I thought that the nuns sang badly, without harmony or spirit.  They looked about them too with what I considered regretable freedom:  they talked to their friends; one of them had a damerino on either side of her, and one also, I was constrained to notice, looked fixedly in my direction, with fine eyes, full of knowledge—­but presently turned her head and passed on.  There was nothing flagrant, nothing to be compared with what was allowed to religious in Padua and Venice; but I was a little discontented at this nun’s inspection.  I had observed that she was handsome and of fine person, pale, serious, and with a high-bred air.