Chapter One.

Morning in the Grifoni Palace.

Near the banks of the river Arno, in an upper room of the beautiful old palace of the Grifoni family, Beppina, the twelve-year-old daughter of the Marchese, lay peacefully sleeping. In his own room across the hall from hers, Beppo, her twin brother, slept also, though it was already early dawn of Easter Saturday in the city of Florence, and both children had meant to be up before the sun, that no hour of the precious holiday should be lost in sleep.

It was the jingle of donkey bells and the sound of laughing voices in the street below her windows that at last roused Beppina. Though it was not yet light, the peasants were already pouring into the city from outlying villages and farms, bringing their families in donkey-carts or wagons drawn by sleek oxen, to enjoy the wonderful events which were to take place in the city on that holy day.

Beppina opened her great dark eyes and sat up in bed to listen. “I’m awake before Beppo,” she whispered joyfully to herself. “I told him I should be first. I wonder what time it is!”

As if in answer to her question a distant clock struck five. “Five o’clock!” murmured Beppina, and, struggling to her knees in her great carved bed, she dipped a dainty finger in the vase of holy water which hung on the wall near by, and crossed herself devoutly. Then, folding her hands, she murmured an Ave Maria before the image of the Virgin which stood on the little table beside her bed. This duty done, she slid to the floor, thrust her little white feet into a pair of blue felt slippers, and her arms into the sleeves of a gay wrapper, then ran across the room to the eastern windows.

As she pushed open the shutters, a gleam of sunshine flashed across the room, lighting the dim frescoes on the high ceiling, and paling the light of the little lamp which burned before the image of the Madonna. A wandering breeze, fresh from the distant hills, blew in, making the flame dance and flicker and flaunting a corner of the white counterpane gayly in the air.

Beppina leaned her arms on the wide stone window-sill, and looked out over Florence. The sun had just risen above the blue crest of the Apennines, its level rays tipping the Campanile and the great dome of the Cathedral with light, and turning eastern window-panes into flaming beacons. The glowing colour of the sky was reflected in the waters of the Arno, which flowed beneath its many bridges like a stream of molten gold. Pigeons wheeled and circled above the roofs, and the air was filled with gentle croonings and the whir of wings.

For a moment Beppina stood drinking in the freshness of the lovely spring morning, then, stepping softly to the door of her room, she opened it cautiously and peered into the dark corridor. She listened; there was not a sound in the house except the gurgle of a distant snore.

“Ah, that Teresina!” murmured Beppina to herself. “She sleeps like a kettle boiling! First the lid rattles, then there is a whistle like the steam. Why does she not put corks in her nose at night and shut the noise up inside of her?”

She slipped silently into the hall and listened at the door of Beppo’s room. She heard no sound, and was just on the point of turning the knob, when the door flew open of itself and a boy with great dark eyes like her own burst into the corridor and bumped directly into her. Beppina backed hastily against the wall, and though the breath was nearly knocked out of her, remembered to offer him her Easter greetings.

“Buona Pasqua, Beppo mio,” she gasped. “I was just going to wake you.”

“To wake me!” Beppo shouted derisively. “That’s a good joke. I’m up first, just as I said I should be! See, I am all dressed, and you—you have not even begun!”

Beppina laid her finger on her lips. “Hush, Beppo!” she whispered. “Don’t roar so. It’s only five o’clock, and every one else in the house is asleep. Not even the maids have stirred, and as for Teresina—listen to her! She sleeps like the dead, though less quietly, yet she rouses at once if the baby stirs, and if we should wake the baby at this hour, she would be angry at us all day long.”

They listened for a moment to the appalling sounds which rolled forth from the room where Teresina, the nurse, slept. Then Beppo said: “If the baby can sleep through that noise, she can sleep through anything. It sounds like a thunder-storm in the mountains.”

At that moment a wicked idea popped into his head. “I know what I’m going to do,” he whispered, grinning with delight. “I’m going to creep into her room like a cat and drop something into her mouth. She sleeps with it open, and I have a piece of soap just the right size!”

“Beppo!” gasped Beppina. “Don’t you dare! Teresina would then refuse to take us to the piazza, and you know very well there is no one else to go with us, for the governess had a headache last night and went to bed looking as yellow as saffron.”

“Oh, but just think how funny Teresina would look, choking and sputtering like a volcano pouring forth fire, smoke, and lava,” chuckled Beppo, who was studying geography and liked it much better than Beppina did.

“If you do it you’ll just have to spend Easter Saturday in the house and miss all the fun,” warned Beppina. “Mammina would not let us go with any of the other servants.”

“I don’t see why she won’t let us go alone,” said Beppo crossly. “I hate to go out on the street with Teresina all dressed up in her ruff and streamers so people will know she’s a baby nurse. I’m big enough to go by myself!”

Beppina looked despairingly at her brother. “Oh, dear!” she said, “I wish Mammina had taken us with her to the villa instead of leaving us to go later with Teresina and the governess, when she has everything ready for us. I wouldn’t mind missing Easter Saturday here if only we could be up at the villa.”

“Or if only our dear Babbo had not had to go away to Rome,” added Beppo gloomily. “He would have taken us with him to see all the Easter sights, and no thanks to Teresina either!”

“But they did go, both of them,” sighed Beppina. “So it’s Teresina or stay at home for us, and I’m sure I don’t want to stay at home!”

Beppo thrust his hands into his pockets, hunched up his shoulders, and looked so gloomy and obstinate that Beppina saw something must be done at once. “Oh, pazienza, Beppo mio!” she said, giving him a little shake. “It might be worse surely. Come, let’s go down to the garden and feed the pigeons. You get the crumbs while I dress.”

“Hurry, then,” said Beppo, brightening a little, as Beppina flung him a butterfly kiss and ran back to her room. She threw on her clothes in two minutes, fastened her long black hair with a hair-pin, and appeared again in the corridor just as Beppo returned from the kitchen with a pan of crumbs in his hand.

The two children then quietly opened the door which led from the Grifoni apartment into the public hall of the old palace and crept silently down the long, dark stone stairs to the ground floor, where Pietro, the porter, lived with his wife and six children. Pietro opened the door of his own apartment and stepped into the public hall just as the two dark figures came stealthily down the last flight. Beppo was certainly in a mood for mischief that morning, for when he saw Pietro he crept softly up behind him as he was buttoning the last button of his