CHAPTER XXXIV.
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WO days later in the year Sanctis stood alone in the great central hall of the old fortress of which he had become lord.
The shadows of the early winter morning were grey and sombre; a pale sunshine coming through them faintly touched a gigantic caryatide in Carrara marble at his side. In that splendid age when the prince and the noble, sheathing their swords in moments of repose, turned to the arts alike for pleasure and for glory, the lords of Massa had summoned painters of Florence to decorate and ennoble this place that was now forgotten and going to decay on the solitary mountain side, as so many other palaces and castles fade and fall, all over Italy, burying their stories with them.
