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 and purified; heralds went before, and proclaimed his coming; the people strewed flowers; every house on the line of march was hung with its most costly draperies; the factions, now no longer anxious for each other's blood, sang responsive chants on either side of the street in praise of the emperor; at the church doors he was solemnly received by the patriarch and the clergy.

As for Constantinople itself, it was in the tenth century a city which struck with astonishment the Westerns, who were accustomed to the narrow and dark streets of Paris or the winding lanes of London. There were wide open spaces, or places, stately churches, with ornate services, long crowded quays, splendid houses of the nobles, and a vast imperial palace. A population exceeding that of any dozen cities of France taken together, swarmed in the streets within the city and overflowed into the suburbs. They were of every nationality and wore every dress. The tall thin Copt from Egypt, the Venetian merchant with purse and inkhorn, the Pisan his rival, the Greek sailor from the islands, the mountaineer of Albania, the uncouth Russian, the stalwart Varangian guardsman, the Persian, the Armenian, the Moslem, the strange wild soldier enlisted in the Armenian highlands, and perhaps destined one day, should fortune prove evil, to seize the empire for himself, the almond-eyed Syrian, whom some, scowling, declared to be a Jew, or even, as some whispered, a Samaritan—all were there on business or for pleasure. And then there were thousands of lazzaroni, creatures born in the streets, living in the streets, and dying in the