'And what did you answer him?'
'I told him he knew I was no trapper of birds or beasts. I thought it best to tell you this, because you must hide more carefully; the inner rooms are safest. They call you in that printing on the walls Count d'Este. You did not call yourself so?'
'Men call me so,' he said, wearily, 'or did so until I became a mere number amongst slaves.'
'That is a title, is it not?'
' A title, barren as the honourable names written under the paintings of these tombs! We were a branch of the Este of Ferrara, the great Este—the mightiest lords there were ever, save the Gonzaga and the Montefeltro. That is of no good now. All we have is a damp, ruined palace in Mantua, a few breadths of water-meadows; beyond Bergamo there is a little city on a rock—men come to it for its arts and architecture—that once was ours. Now we do not own a brick within its walls, and it is only remembered by travellers now and then because its houses are Bramante's and Sansovino's, and its altars are Giovanni Bellini's. We are almost as dead, almost as forgotten, as your Etruscans here.'
