Casa Lanfranchi
Lord Byron, the cynosure of Europe, was used worse than a dog. Lord Byron was a wanderer, welcome in no country. Lord Byron’s politics were identical with Christ’s. The governor of Pisa, imagine, had sent round myrmidons with daggers to beat at Lord Byron’s door and tell him that he was not allowed a shooting gallery in back of his palazzo. As if there weren’t a thousand worse things! Lord Byron would do as he liked. The threats of a petty satrap were so much wind to a man who had just armed the spring revolts in the Piedmont, who had made his Venice palazzo a storehouse for muskets—
“Oui, oui,” said Severn, “formidable.”
The Frenchman in yellow trousers bowed at the interruption and drew breath to go on.
“But have you no word of others?” Severn asked. “Of Monsieur Keat
