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that it had not long since changed masters. As they walked through the narrow, tortuous streets they passed a good many people going about their various business, and they looked contented. You received the impression that the tenor of their lives remained unaltered. Now and then pedestrians had to make way for a man on horseback or for a string of donkeys with a load of firewood. A man sauntered by with she-asses, whose milk was good for pregnant women, and announced his presence with the habitual cry; an old crone popped her head out of a window and called him; he stopped, and in a minute she appeared at her door with a beaker. A pedlar of pins and needles, thread and ribands, passed along raucously calling his wares. There were shops in the street in which was the Golden Lion; there was a customer at the saddler's, a man was having his hair cut at the barber's, and a woman was trying on a pair of shoes at the shoemaker's. There was about all an air, not of opulence, but of a comfortable prosperity. No beggars pestered.
    They entered the Golden Lion and Machiavelli ordered for himself and Piero bread and wine. Dipping the bread in the wine they made it palatable and then drank what remained of the wine. Thus fortified they went to the barber's and Machiavelli had himself shaved; the barber sprinkled strongly-scented water on his short black hair, and combed it. Meanwhile Piero had been meditatively stroking his smooth chin.
    'I think I need a shave, Messer Niccolo,' he said.
    'It can wait a few weeks yet,' said Machiavelli, smiling thinly; then to the barber: 'Put some of your scent on his head and run a comb through his hair.'
    They were both ready. Machiavelli enquired of the barber where was the house of a certain Messer Bartolo-meo Martelli whom he desired to visit. The barber gave them directions, but they were so complicated that Machiavelli asked if he could not get someone to show them the way. The barber went to the door of his shop, and calling an urchin who was playing in the street, told him to conduct the strangers. Their way led through the principal square, the square in which was the palace occupied by the Duke, and since it was market day it was crowded with the stalls of the farmers who had brought into the city for sale fruits and vegetables, chickens, meat and cheese, and with the stalls of chapmen with brass, ironmongery, cloth goods, old clothes and what not. A great throng of people were bargaining, buying, or merely looking, and there was a din of voices. It was a gay and busy scene under the bright October sun. As Machiavelli and Piero entered the square they heard the wail of a brass horn and some of the noise was stilled.
    'It's the crier,' yelled the little boy excitedly, and seizing Machiavelli's hand he began to run. 'I have not heard him yet.'
    A number of people surged forward, and looking in the direction they took Machiavelli saw that there was a gallows at the other end of the square and two men were hanging there. It was not a sight he cared to see, and he snatched his hand away. Forgetting his errand the boy raced towards the centre of interest. The crier in a loud voice began to speak, but he was too far away for Machiavelli to hear what he said. He turned impatiently to a stout woman who was standing guard over her stall.
    'What has happened?' he asked her. 'What is the crier saying?'
    She shrugged her shoulders.
    'It's only two thieves who've been hanged. By the Duke's orders the crier comes every half hour till noon and says they've been hanged because they stole the property of citizens. They're French soldiers, they say.'
    Machiavelli repressed a start. It could not be what he suspected, but he had to see for himself. He strode forward, squeezing his way through the crowd, jostling and jostled, his eyes fixed on the two hanging bodies. The crier had said his say, and stepping down from the platform on which the gallows had been erected sauntered nonchalantly away. The crowd thinned