piazza, not very broad, but flagged all over and set about with stately brick buildings, having on the left the stone front of a great church, tier upon tier of arches interlaced. The door of it was guarded by two stone lions, and above the porch was the figure of a buxom lady with a smile half saucy, half benevolent, to whom Angioletto doffed his cap.
"They call her Donna Ferrara," he explained. "This is the Duomo. Let us go in."
They dismounted; a lame boy held the mule; they entered the church.
It was very large, very dark, and nearly empty. Angioletto put his arm round Bellaroba's waist, and they began to pace the aisle in confidential talk.
"Where are you going to live in this place, Bellaroba?" he asked her.
"I don't know. Olimpia knows. There was a Monna Nanna we were to live with, I think. But Olimpia will decide. I must do as she wishes."
"But why?"
"She is older than I am—two years. Besides I always have. And my mother commanded it."
"Your last appears to me the only reason worth a thought. Do you not want to know what I think of it, Bellaroba?" He bent his head towards her. Her answer, the flutter of a quick little kiss, pleased him. "Well, I will tell you," said he. "I think we should be married at once—this very minute. I do indeed."
"Oh!" said Bellaroba, blushing beautifully.
"I can see that you are pleased at this, my dear," Angioletto said, looking at her. They
