He went into the shop, and affecting nonchalance, inquired how long the printing-press had been in Rome. The man said he believed there was no such thing in the city. “Oh, the Lactantius; that was printed on the top of the Apennines.”
“What, did the printing-press fall down there out o' the moon?”
“Nay, messer,” said the trader, laughing; “it shot up there out of Germany. See the title-page!”
Gerard took the Lactantius eagerly, and saw the following—
Opera et impensis Sweynheim et Pannartz
Alumnorum Joannis Fust.
Impressum Subiacis. A.D. 1465.
“Will ye buy, messer? See how fair and even be the letters. Few are left can write like that; and scarce a quarter of the price.”
“I would fain have it,” said Gerard sadly, “but my heart will not let me. Know that I am a caligraph, and these disciples of Fust run after me round the world a-taking the bread out of my mouth. But I wish them no ill. Heaven forbid!” And he hurried from the shop.
“Dear Margaret,” said he to himself, “we must lose no time; we must make our hay while shines the sun. One month more and an avalanche of printer's type shall roll down on Rome from those Apennines, and lay us waste that writers be.”
And he almost ran to the Princess Claelia.
He was ushered into an apartment new to him. It was not very large, but most luxurious; a fountain played in the centre, and the floor was covered with the skins of panthers, dressed with the hair, so that no footfall could be heard. The room was an ante-chamber to the princess's boudoir, for on one side there was no door, but an ample curtain of gorgeous tapestry.