It was not until he was fairly plunged into the great sea of the city,

and had begun to be a little dazed by more lights than he ever saw when

he closed his eyes in bed, that he remembered that he had disobeyed

orders and broken his promise not to go out. But even then, he told

himself, he was not responsible. He was Donna Roma's porter now.

Therefore, he couldn't be Joseph, could he?

So, with his magic mace in hand, the serious man of seven marched on,

and reconciled himself to his disobedience by thinking nothing more

about it. People looked at him and smiled as he passed through the

Piazza Madama, where the Senate House stands, and that made him lift his

head and walk on proudly, but as he went through the Piazza of the

Pantheon a boy who was coming out of a cookshop with a tray on his head

cried, "Helloa, kiddy! playing Pulcinello?" and that dashed his

worshipful dignity for several minutes.

It began to snow, and the white flakes on his gold braid clouded his

soul at first, but when he remembered that porters had to work in all

weathers, he wagged his sturdy head and strode on. He was going to Donna

Roma's according to her invitation, and he found his way by his

recollection of what he had seen when he made the same journey on

Sunday--here a tramcar coming round a corner, there a line of posts

across a narrow thoroughfare, and there a fat man with a gruff voice

shouting something at the door of a trattoria.

At the corner of a lane there was a shop window full of knives and

revolvers. He didn't care for knives--they cut people's fingers--but he

liked guns, and when he grew up to be a man he would buy one and kill

somebody.

Coming to the Piazza Monte Citorio, he remembered the soldiers at the

door of the House of Parliament, and the cellar full of long guns with

knives (bayonets) stuck on the ends of their muzzles. One of the

soldiers laughed, called him "Uncle," and asked him something about

enlisting, but he only struck his mace firmly on the flags and marched

on.

At the corner of the Piazza Colonna he had to wait some time before he

could cross the Corso, for the crowds were coming both ways and the

traffic frightened him. He had made various little sorties and had been

driven back, when a soft hand was slipped into his fat palm and he was

piloted across in safety. Then he looked up at his helper. It was a girl

with big white feathers in her hat, and her face painted pink and white

like the face of the little Jesus in the cradle in church at Christmas.

She asked him what his name was, and he told her; also where he was

going, and he told her that too. It was dark by this time, and the great

little man was beginning to be glad of company.




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