“Thank you， thank you， you beautiful animal，” said the little boy， caressing the MetalPig as it ran down the steps.
“Thanks to yourself also，” replied the Metal Pig; “I have helped you and you have helpedme， for it is only when I have an innocent child on my back that I receive the power to run.Yes; as you see， I can even venture under the rays of the lamp， in front of the picture ofthe Madonna， but I may not enter the church; still from without， and while you are upon myback， I may look in through the open door. Do not get down yet， for if you do， then I shallbe lifeless， as you have seen me in the Porta Rosa.”
“I will stay with you， my dear creature，” said the little boy. So then they went on at arapid pace through the streets of Florence， till they came to the square before the church ofSanta Croce. The folding-doors flew open， and light streamed from the altar through thechurch into the deserted square. A wonderful blaze of light streamed from one of themonuments in the left-side aisle， and a thousand moving stars seemed to form a glory roundit; even the coat-of-arms on the tomb-stone shone， and a red ladder on a blue field gleamedlike fire. It was the grave of Galileo. The monument is unadorned， but the red ladder is anemblem of art， signifying that the way to glory leads up a shining ladder， on which theprophets of mind rise to heaven， like Elias of old. In the right aisle of the church every statueon the richly carved sarcophagi seemed endowed with life. Here stood Michael Angelo; thereDante， with the laurel wreath round his brow; Alfieri and Machiavelli; for here side by siderest the GREat men—the pride of Italy.1 The church itself is very beautiful， even morebeautiful than the marble cathedral at Florence， though not so large. It seemed as if thecarved vestments stirred， and as if the marble figures they covered raised their headshigher， to gaze upon the brightly colored glowing altar where the white-robed boys swungthe golden censers， amid music and song， while the strong fragrance of incense filled thechurch， and streamed forth into the square. The boy stretched forth his hands towards thelight， and at the same moment the Metal Pig started again so rapidly that he was obliged tocling tightly to him. The wind whistled in his ears， he heard the church door creak on itshinges as it closed， and it seemed to him as if he had lost his senses— then a cold shudderpassed over him， and he awoke.
It was morning; the Metal Pig stood in its old place on the Porta Rosa， and the boy foundhe had slipped nearly off its back. Fear and trembling came upon him as he thought of hismother; she had sent him out the day before to get some money， he had not done so， andnow he was hungry and thirsty. Once more he clasped the neck of his metal horse， kissed itsnose， and nodded farewell to it. Then he wandered away into one of the narrowest streets，where there was scarcely room for a loaded donkey to pass. A GREat iron-bound door stoodajar; he passed through， and climbed up a brick staircase， with dirty walls and a rope for abalustrade， till he came to an open gallery hung with rags. From here a flight of steps leddown to a court， where from a well water was drawn up by iron rollers to the different storiesof the house， and where the water-buckets hung side by side. Sometimes the roller and thebucket danced in the air， splashing the water all over the court. Another broken-downstaircase led from the gallery， and two Russian sailors running down it almost upset thepoor boy. They were coming from their nightly carousal. A woman not very young， with anunpleasant face and a quantity of black hair， followed them. “What have you broughthome?” she asked. when she saw the boy.
“Don't be angry，” he pleaded; “I received nothing， I have nothing at all;” and he seizedhis mother's dress and would have kissed it. Then they went into a little room. I need notdescribe it， but only say that there stood in it an earthen pot with handles， made for holdingfire， which in Italy is called a marito. This pot she took in her lap， warmed her fingers， andpushed the boy with her elbow.
“Certainly you must have some money，” she said. the boy began to cry， and then shestruck him with her foot till he cried out louder.
“Will you be quiet? or I'll break your screaminghead;” and she swung about the fire-pot which sheheld in her hand， while the boy crouched to theearth and screamed.
then a neighbor came in， and she had also amarito under her arm. “Felicita，” she said， “whatare you doing to the child?”
“the child is mine，” she answered; “I canmurder him if I like， and you too， Giannina.” Andthen she swung about the fire-pot. The otherwoman lifted up hers to defend herself， and the two pots clashed together so violently thatthey were dashed to pieces， and fire and ashes flew about the room. The boy rushed out atthe sight， sped across the courtyard， and fled from the house. The poor child ran till he wasquite out of breath; at last he stopped at the church， the doors of which were opened to himthe night before， and went in. Here everything was bright， and the boy knelt down by thefirst tomb on his right， the grave of Michael Angelo， and sobbed as if his heart would break.People came and went， mass was performed， but no one noticed the boy， excepting anelderly citizen， who stood still and looked at him for a moment， and then went away like therest. Hunger and thirst overpowered the child， and he became quite faint and ill. At last hecrept into a corner behind the marble monuments， and went to sleep. Towards evening hewas awakened by a pull at his sleeve; he started up， and the same old citizen stood beforehim.