He smoked and listened composedly to Santa Margherita and Barbarisi, who were discussing--apropos of a recent case in France--whether it was legitimate or not to use the left hand against an adversary.

Now and again, he leaned forward to look out of the window.
On this May morning Rome shone resplendent under the caressing sun.

Here a fountain lit up with its silvery laughter a little piazzetta still plunged in shadow; there the open gates of a palace disclosed a vista of courtyard with a background of portico and statues; from the baroque architecture of a brick church hung the decorations for the month of Mary.

Under the bridge, the Tiber gleamed and glistened as it hurried away between the gray-green houses towards the island of San Bartolomeo.
After a short ascent, the whole city spread out before them, immense, imperial, radiant, bristling with spires and columns and obelisks, crowned with cupolas and rotundas, clean cut out of the blue like a citadel.
'_Ave Roma, moriturus te salutat!_' exclaimed Andrea Sperelli, throwing away the end of his cigarette.

'Though, to tell the truth, my dear fellows.' he added, 'a sword-thrust would decidedly inconvenience me this morning.' They had reached the Villa Sciarra, already partially profaned by the builders of modern houses, and were passing through an avenue of tall and slender laurels bordered by hedges of roses.