style="margin-top: 2em">The stern and repulsive aspect of the exterior of the Marchesa
Guinigi's palace belied the antique magnificence within.

Turning to the right under an archway from the damp, moss-grown court over which the tower throws a perpetual shadow, a broad staircase, closed by a door of open ironwork, leads to the first story (the piano nobile). Here an anteroom, with Etruscan urns and fragments of mediaeval sculpture let into the walls, gives access to a great sala, or hall, where Paolo Guinigi entertained the citizens and magnates of Lucca with sumptuous hospitality.

The vaulted ceiling, divided into compartments by heavy panels, is profusely gilt, and painted in fresco by Venetian masters; but the gold is dulled by age, and the frescoes are but dingy patches of what once was color. The walls, ornamented with Flemish tapestry, represent the Seven Labors of Hercules—the bright colors all faded out and blurred like the frescoes. Above, on the surface of polished walnut-wood, between the tapestry and the ceiling, are hung suits of mail, helmets, shields, swords, lances, and tattered banners.

Every separate piece has its history. Each lance, in the hand of some mediaeval hero of the name, has transfixed a foe, every sword has been dyed in the life-blood of a Ghibelline.

At the four corners of the hall are four doorways corresponding to each other. Before each doorway hang curtains of Genoa velvet, embroidered in gold with the Guinigi arms surmounted by a princely coronet. Time has mellowed these once crimson curtains to dingy red. From the hall, entered by these four doors, open out endless suites of rooms, enriched with the spoils of war and the splendor of feudal times. Not a chair, not a table, has been renewed, or even shifted from its place, since the fourteenth century, when Paolo Guinigi reigned absolute in Lucca.

On first entering, it is difficult to distinguish any thing in the half-light. The narrow Gothic casements of the whole floor are closed, both those toward the street and those facing inward upon the inner court. The outer wooden shutters are also closely fastened. The marchesa would consider it a sacrilege to allow light or even outer air to penetrate in these rooms, sacred to the memory of her great ancestors.

First in order after the great hall is a long gallery paneled with dark marble. It has a painted ceiling, and a mosaic floor. Statues and antique busts, presented by the emperor to Paolo Guinigi, are ranged on either side. This gallery leads through various antechambers to the retiring-room, where, in feudal times, the consort of the reigning lord presided when the noble dames of Lucca visited her on state occasions—a victory gained over the Pisans or Florentines—the conquest of a rebellious city, Pistoia perhaps—the birth of a son; or—the anniversary of national festivals. Pale-blue satin stuffs and delicate brocades, crossed with what was once glittering threads of gold, cover the walls. Rows of Venetian-glass chandeliers, tinted in every shade of loveliest color, fashioned into colored knots, pendants, and flowers, hang from the painted rafters. Mirrors, set in ponderous frames of old Florentine gilding, dimly reflect every object; narrow, high-backed chairs and carved wooden benches, sculptured mosaic tables and ponderous sideboards covered with choice pottery from Gubbio and Savona, and Lucca della Robbia ware. Sunk in recesses there are dark cupboards filled with mediaeval salvers, goblets, and flagons, gold dishes, and plates, and vessels of filigree and silver. Ivory carvings hang on the walls beside dingy pictures, or are ranged on tables of Sicilian agate and Oriental jasper. Against the walls are also placed cabinets and caskets of carved walnut-wood and ebony inlaid with lapis-lazuli, jasper, and precious stones; also long, narrow coffers, richly carved, within which the corredo, or trousseau, of rich brides who had matched with a Guinigi, was laid.

Beyond the retiring-room is the presence-chamber. On a dais, raised on three broad steps, stands a chair of state, surmounted by a dark-velvet canopy. Above appear the Guinigi arms, worked in gold and black, tarnished now, as is the glory of the illustrious house they represent. Overhead are suspended two cardinal's hats, dropping to pieces with moth and mildew. On the wall opposite the dais, between two ranges of narrow Venetian windows, looking into the court-yard, hangs the historic portrait of Castruccio Castracani degli Antimelli, the Napoleon of the middle ages, whose rapid conquests raised Lucca to a sovereign state.

The name of the great Castruccio (whose mother was a Guinigi) is the glory of the house, his portrait more precious than any other possession.

A gleam of ruddy light strikes through a crevice in a red curtain opposite; it falls full upon the chair of state. That chair is not empty; a tall, dark figure is seated there. It is the Marchesa Guinigi. She is so thin and pale and motionless, she might pass for a ghost herself, haunting the ghosts of her ancestors!

It is her custom twice a year, on the anniversary of the birth and death of Castruccio Castracani—to-day is the anniversary of his death—to unlock the door leading from the hall into these state-apartments, and to remain here alone for many hours. The key is always about her person, attached to her girdle. No other foot but her own is ever permitted to tread these floors.

She sits in the half-light, lost in thought as in a dream. Her head is raised, her arms are extended over the sides of the antique chair; her long, white hands hang down listlessly. Her eyes wander vaguely along the floor; gradually they raise themselves to the portrait of her great ancestor opposite. How well she knows every line and feature of that stern but heroic countenance, every dark curl upon that classic head, wreathed with ivy-leaves; that full, expressive eye, aquiline nose, open nostril, and chiseled lip; every fold in that ermine-bordered mantle—a present from the emperor, after the victory of Altopasso, and the triumph of the Ghibellines! Looking into the calmness of that impressive face, in the mystery of the darkened presence-chamber, she can forget that the greatness of her house is fallen, the broad lands sold or mortgaged, the treasures granted by the state lavished, one even of the ancestral palaces sold; nay, worse, not only sold, but desecrated by commerce in the person of Count Nobili.

Seated there, on the seigneurial chair, under the regal canopy, she can forget all this. For a few short hours she can live again in the splendor of the past—the past, when a Guinigi was the equal of kings, his word more absolute than law, his frown more terrible than death!

Before the marchesa is a square table of dark marble, on which in old time was laid the sword of state (a special insignia of office), borne before the Lord of Lucca in public processions, embassies, and tournaments. This table is now covered with small piled-up heaps of gold and silver coin (the gold much less in quantity than the silver). There are a few jewels, and some diamond pendants in antique settings, a diamond necklace, crosses, medals, and orders, and a few uncut gems and antique intaglios.

The marchesa takes up each object and examines it. She counts the gold-pieces, putting them back again one by one in rows, by tens and twenties. She handles the crisp bank-notes. She does this over and over again so slowly and so carefully, it would seem, as if she expected the money to grow under her fingers. She has placed all in order before her—the jewels on one side, the money and the notes on the other. As she moves them to and fro on the smooth marble with the points of her long fingers, she shakes her head and sighs. Then she touches a secret spring, and a drawer opens from