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SIGNA.
CHAPTER I.
When he reached Prato it was quite night. Most of the houses were shut up; but, as it had been a great fair day, there were lights in many places, and little knots before winehouse doors, and groups coming and going to the sound of mandohnes, laughing and romping about the old crooked streets.
There was a bright moon above the old town where Fra Lippo once lived. The shadows of walls, and gables, and towers, and roofs, were black as jet. The women and youths danced on the pavement, while somebody strummed a guitar for them. There was a smell of spilt wine and dead
