He sat there moody, his mouth hard; grimly glad that the scales of fate had weighed in favour of his rise into the power denied to her.
The sun, sinking toward the hills, plunged the city walls in shadow as they drove through the Porta Romana and past the great church of the Servites.
Then, winding round the ancient market, they emerged into the open "Campo"—that curious shell-shaped piazza where throbs the heart of old Siena.
"What is that tower?" McTaggart pointed. "I can see it from my bedroom window."
"The Torre del Mangia," his aunt replied, "above the palace of the Commune. You must see the frescoes in the Chapel, by Bazzi—pure quattro cento. And there is the famous Fonte Gaia—after Giacomo della Quercia. The original fragments are in the museum. That is a copy—but still fine. This Square is where 'il Palio' is run, the two occasions in the year when Siena awakes to life——" she smiled scornfully as she spoke.
"Dio!—I shall be glad to go—it is a city of the dead. And cold...!" She shivered and drew her furs closer, aware of the sunset hour.
They came at last into the palace. Beppo received them in the hall with letters for his young master. McTaggart eagerly gathered them up.
"Bring 'sweet wine' into the boudoir," said the Marchesa to the servant. She turned to her nephew. "It's warmer there. I will join you when I get rid of my furs."
But McTaggart went to his room first, anxious to find if the letters held any news of Cydonia, and, locking the door, sat down by his stove.
There were three of them, sent on from his club. A line from Bethune, a tailor's bill and an envelope in a clerkly hand. He tore it open carelessly.