"Figlio d'una—!" yelled the barocciaio.
"Here now," said Angelescu authoritatively, thinking they had gone quite far enough and annoyed by the uproar, "stop that bawling or I'll give you both in charge. You were on the wrong side of the road and you were asleep," he said to the lowering barocciaio, "so if you fell off it was your own fault. However, here's a lira for you, and now pull aside and let us pass."
He tossed a silver coin to the man whose ill-humour disappeared as though by magic, he even touched his cap and wished the "Signori" a "Buona passeggiata" as he led his horse by. The little dog had stopped barking and sat on his haunches regarding them with bright intelligent eyes, his fluffy ears pointed forward, a tip of his pink tongue showing under his truffle-like muzzle.
The fiaccheraio shook his head apologetically.
"He vuole, Signore, those people have no education, they will make a bad end. Did you hear what he said about aristocrats? But that is nothing, you should hear what they say in their socialistic meetings! They will end like that Brescia who murdered our good King. It is a bad thing for people of no education to talk too much. Madonna dé fiaccherai! to think that such farabutti should take the bread from honest men's mouths!"
"You are hard on them," said Angelescu.
"Ah, Signore mio, you do not know our beceri, and what they are capable of! It is a bad world and one must work hard for a tozzo di pane and a glass of vin nero—and these merli wish to live without working, and that is a thing which has never been since the world began. They say to us others, 'aha, minchioni, we will live on your shoulders!'"
Angelescu amused, continued to draw the old man out; the shrewd mother-wit and quaint phrases of the old Florentine were a source of delight to him. Ragna leaned back, indifferent, lost in the pleasant labyrinth of her day-dreams.
The road came to a sharp turn and the driver instinctively drew rein. Before them, beyond an indeterminate fore-ground of shadow, rose the city, bathed in the rays of the setting sun. Towers pierced the glowing haze, fairest of all the tower of Palazzo Vecchio, slender and tall like some stately lily, and floating bubble-like on the gold, the wonderful airy cupola of the Duomo. The long level mellow rays of sunset gave the scene an unreal aspect; it seemed that as way-worn pilgrims they had come suddenly upon the golden dream city of their desire, a city called up magically before their eyes, a glorious vision evoked by the power and wonder of their love. Above the dome and the towers, pearly clouds merging into amethyst floated in the gold-pink sky. The sound of many church-bells mellowed by the distance to a suggestion of heavenly music floated to their ears. Both felt instinctively that this was the fit ending to their perfect afternoon. In these last few hours they had attained to the apex of human happiness—whatever the future might hold in store for them, nothing could ever mar the transcendent beauty of this day, nor could they ever hope to surpass the joy, the glory of it.