They were victorious at last and divided their conquests equably among their great patrician families.

Descendants of some of those proud families still inhabit the palaces of Genoa, and trace in their own features a resemblance to the grim knights whose portraits hang in their stately halls, and to pictured beauties with pouting lips and merry eyes whose originals have been dust and ashes for many a dead and forgotten century.
The hotel we live in belonged to one of those great orders of knights of the Cross in the times of the Crusades, and its mailed sentinels once kept watch and ward in its massive turrets and woke the echoes of these halls and corridors with their iron heels.
But Genoa's greatness has degenerated into an unostentatious commerce in velvets and silver filagree-work.

They say that each European town has its specialty.

These filagree things are Genoa's specialty.

Her smiths take silver ingots and work them up into all manner of graceful and beautiful forms.