When Ragna opened her eyes the next morning, she had the impression of opening them to a new life, different from that of yesterday; there was something to look forward to,—just what, her sleepy memory refused to say. Then as she stirred and sat up, it came back to her, and again she declared: "I shall not go to meet him, it would be foolish!"

But she dressed with unusual care, and went to the dining-room for breakfast, afraid of finding Astrid ready to accompany her, and at the same time almost hoping for it. Astrid, however, had elected to spend the morning in bed; she had got a chill, she said, from the drive the day before, and yawning, buried her face in the sleeve of her blue flannel bed-jacket. So Ragna started out alone, and resolutely set her face towards the Vatican. She had gone but a short distance, however, when she wheeled about, and walked as rapidly in the opposite direction.

"It can do no harm if I meet him this once," she argued. Then, "I suppose I am a fool." A panic seized her, suppose he should not come, after all? As she turned the end of the Forum, she saw the graceful figure of Prince Mirko coming to meet her.

"I knew it!" he cried joyously, waving his hat like a school-boy. "I knew you would not disappoint me!"

His gaiety was infectious, and Ragna's laugh echoed his. He took the red guide-book from her hand, and held it up accusingly.

"Why have you brought this? I told you, you would not need one with me!" he cried, stuffing the offending book into his pocket.

They passed through the turnstile, and strolled up the path in the wake of the official guide. The bright Roman sunshine illuminated the Forum below, gilding the columns and casting short blue shadows in the excavations. Overhead, the sky was a deep rich blue, and the air was charged with the peculiar sweetness of approaching Spring. The guide walked slowly, his hands in his pockets, humming an air from Rigoletto: "Questao quella per me pari sono,"—Mirko hummed it also, then broke into "La donno È mobile," giving it with rollicking voice.

Ragna smiled at him.

"In the opera it is the man who is 'mobile,' in spite of what the song says!"

"Oh, no, the song is quite right—when a man is openly unfaithful, it is only in answer to a secret defection on the part of the woman. Any intelligent woman who wishes to keep a man, can do it—you can always be sure that it is really the woman's fault if a man strays in his allegiance."

"That is an extremely convenient theory," said Ragna, laughing, "but it is a poor rule that won't work both ways. Would you make the man responsible for infidelity on the part of the woman?"

"Oh, that is a very different matter!"

"Why should it be?"

"You will not pretend, I suppose, that a woman is exactly the same as a man? The difference between them alters the whole aspect of the case."

"Oh!" said Ragna, "you are incorrigible, you twist and turn so,—you will never meet me fairly!"

"The infidelity of man," continued Mirko, "is different in its very essence from that of woman,—it is quite possible for a man to be constant when he is apparently most unfaithful—the superficial change only enhances the charm of the real affection; he never tires of coming back to it,—if he were never to leave it, it would pall on him."

"Why will you be so paradoxical?"

"It is not I who am paradoxical,—it is life."

They were so absorbed in their conversation, that the guide found no way of attracting their attention; in vain did he hem and haw, and scrape his foot on the gravel.

"They are most certainly a 'viaggio di nozze,'" he thought, "or perhaps 'fidanzati'—as such they will be generous."

Finally, as they came to the entrance to the ruins, he stepped before them with a commanding gesture.

"This, Signori, is the gallery where the Empress sat with her ladies. You see it overlooks the street where the chariots passed up to the palace. The palace itself was built out over the way, and the people went under it as under a bridge."

"See," said Mirko, "can you not imagine it,—the beautiful gallery, with its marble balustrade, hung with woven carpets and silken draperies—there before you in the sunlight? Do you not see the Empress, beautiful, stately, robed in purple, gems and gold-dust in her dark hair, wonderful jewels on her neck and arms? There are the ladies,—the proud dark one just behind her, the fair girl leaning over the balustrade at her side, with the gold of the sun on her hair, on her white dress, and the other three, laughing together, over there to the left? The slave-girls are holding peacock-feather fans to shield their royal mistress, and the slave-boys, beautiful, fair-haired captives, have brought baskets of fruit and sweets. And down in the street below, what a crowd, what a riot of colour! The CÆsar on his white horse with the gold trappings—do you catch the gleam of his burnished helmet, of his cuirass? He turns his head haughtily, and gathers up the reins in his hand; his short sword clatters against his thigh as his horse moves on. There, just behind him, comes the centurion of his escort, brave to see in his flaunting scarlet cloak, and the legionaries follow, like so many animated bronze statues. See—the fair waiting-maid by the Empress has dropped a rose to the centurion—he looks up and smiles—his teeth flash white—the slaves, carrying jars and baskets on their heads, have flattened themselves against the walls, to let the procession go by,—it moves like a glittering snake up the narrow way.—Hark! the salute of the palace guard, spear rattling on shield, and the shout 'Ave CÆsar!' It echoes under the vaulted way—and all Rome is in that cry!"

Mirko was flushed with enthusiasm; he threw back his head, and the clear-cut features of his classic face glowed, his dark eyes flashed, he seemed the very incarnation of that "lust of the eye and pride of life," of that "grandeur that was Rome."

As he spoke, Ragna saw the pageant of those far off days unrolled before her. She felt the throbbing of all the passionate life of old, where but a few minutes before there had been but moss-grown stone and crumbling ruins. He had laid a spell on her; she was for the moment, by virtue of his imagination, and its dramatic expression, actually living in the past, feeling its reality.

And so it continued throughout the morning. In the long paved underground passage way, Mirko showed her CÆsar, carried along in his litter, returning from his theatre. She saw the flickering light of the torches, heard the sandalled footsteps of the slaves,—their heavy breathing, the creak of the poles. And at the foot of the stairs she saw the sudden confusion,—the dark-cloaked assassins stealing from the shadow, she heard the shrieks, the cries of "Treason!" "Murder!" She saw in glimpses between the surging figures, the white-faced Emperor, struggling from his litter,—his unwieldy form leapt upon, borne back and down, then blows,—a gurgling groan. She saw the overturned litter, the crumpled body on the floor, the widening pool of blood,—then flight to the long flare of torches snatched from the trembling slaves, then darkness, and the alarm.

She saw the gay crowds, trooping into the Circus Maximus, the arrival in procession of CÆsar, Æditor of the games. She watched breathless the speeding chariots, and carried out of herself, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes, joined in the thunderous applause which acclaimed the victor,—the hoarse roar which must, it seemed, shake the very foundations of Rome.

When it was all over, and the guide had beamingly pocketed his mancia and they were in the street again, Ragna drew a long breath.

"It has been wonderful!"

"Then you are satisfied with your cicerone? You are convinced that a guide-book is unnecessary?"

"Oh," she answered, "the book makes it all into a cemetery,—or a table of dates,—but you have made Rome live.—It can never be the same now, as it was before; I have been there, I have seen it, it is part of me,—and without you I should never have known anything of it at all. How do you do it? How do you bring it all to life?"

Mirko smiled, well pleased with the result of his effort and with himself.

"I have been there."

"Been there! How?"

"I was once a Roman, I feel it, I know it!"

"Yes," she answered, "I think you must have been,—I can feel that you have been—you have made me feel it."

They were silent for a few minutes, and Ragna repeated:

"It has been wonderful!"

When they had parted, and Ragna found herself alone, the wonder of it grew on her. How blind she had been until the Prince opened her eyes! She was very glad that she had come, all her half-formulated scruples were laid at rest. How foolish she had been to imagine any possible harm!—What could be more innocent or more delightful than their informal comradeship? He was quite right too, in wishing to keep it all to themselves. Astrid would not, could not understand, still less so good, prosaic-minded Fru Bjork, and as for Estelle Hagerup! Ragna laughed scornfully, as there rose before her mental vision the grasshopper-like silhouette of that strenuous spinster.

At luncheon, looking about her at the commonplace faces of her fellow sojourners, she could not repress a secret movement of vanity.

"How many of these," she thought, "would give their eyes to spend a morning like mine,—and with a friend like mine!" She even pitied Astrid,—poor Astrid, who had never known a Prince!

Estelle Hagerup announced a discovery—she had a voice.

"My dears," she said with pride, "what a voice! Just as clear as crystal, and very powerful—and to think I never knew of it before!"

"How did you find it out, Estelle?" asked Ragna and Astrid together.

"I was standing on the top tier of the Colosseum, and the impulse came over me to sing—so I lifted up my voice and sang. I wish you could have been there to hear! A custode came running at once and was much impressed. He said he had never heard anything like it in his life. I gave him a lira, and he said 'grazie Contessa.' He refused to leave me after that, and waited till I was ready to go with the greatest deference."

"Are you thinking of the operatic stage?" asked Astrid wickedly.

"Perhaps that may come later, when I shall have acquired a repertory."

"You will have to study," said the old Swedish lady. "There was a young woman here last winter studying music, and she sang scales three hours a day; she had a room next mine. I should advise you to go to Florence—they say there are better singing-masters there."

"I shall not sing scales," said Estelle firmly.

"I thought one always had to," put in Ragna.

"Not with a voice like mine; my voice is far beyond scales."

"That is very satisfactory, dear FrÖken," said the old lady. "My dear," this to Ragna, "will you give me the largest tartlet,—the one with the most jam on it?"

"I hope," remarked Fru Bjork, "that you will do nothing so silly as to train for the stage, Estelle." She was about to add, "at your age, too," but refrained.

Estelle simpered.

"Why should it be silly, Fru Bjork, if I feel it to be my vocation? Why should I not give utterance to the sacred fire that is within me? Is it not my duty to humanity?"

Fru Bjork found no answer to this, and held her peace, but Ragna was more daring.

"Do you think you have a stage presence, Estelle?" she asked.

"Why not? I am tall—besides, it is much more important to have voice and temperament. I feel it my mission to redeem the stage. Why do you ask me such a question?"

Ragna was saved from answering by the old lady.

"My dear! My dear! Pick me out something before they carry the fruit around! Last evening that man with the whiskers at the end of the table took the last banana, before I had a chance."

Ragna rose from the table in disgust. She longed to be back in the past again with Prince Mirko—all these present things seemed so vulgar and common by contrast, and yet until now, they had amused her! She looked about the dining-room and despised the men in it. A stout German with his napkin tucked in at the neck, sprawled over his plate, emitting hideous grunts and smacks, at the other end of the room, two well-nourished Englishmen sat with their families like self-satisfied roosters with their feathered following. At her own table, an anÆmic and dreamy-eyed art-student played with his dessert, an Italian Commendatore with white whiskers, and a rotund waistcoat, beamed on his neighbours, and a gentleman with marvellous tight striped trousers, a still more marvellous moustache and a flamboyant necktie, was lighting a cigarette.

"How vulgar, how horrid they are!" thought Ragna.