It seemed to Ragna that she had opened her eyes on a new Heaven and a new Earth. As the days went on and lengthened into weeks, she grew so dependent on the companionship of Prince Mirko, that if a day passed without her seeing him, she felt blank and as though defrauded of a pleasure that was hers by right. A curious change, too, had taken place in her mental or rather sentimental attitude, for whereas at first, she had dreaded his recalling the, to her, unforgetable episode of the last evening on the Norje, she now felt secretly piqued by his lack of memory, and by his mere friendliness. It was as though she were disappointed in not having to ward off unwelcome—or too welcome—advances. The passionate impulsiveness of him, as she remembered it, but threw into greater relief the measured comradeship of his present attitude towards her. A more experienced woman would have suspected him of "parti pris," for a purpose, but Ragna saw nothing but genuine indifference, and her feminine vanity urged her to force him into recognition of the womanhood he had been instrumental in awakening. Therefore the simple almost childlike relations of the first days had insensibly given way to a state of tension which Mirko understood and was ready to turn to his advantage, but which Ragna did not understand in the least. Here her real innocence was the weak point in her armour. Several days passed thus, each waiting for a sign. Mirko with perspicacity, and Ragna with a sort of subconscious expectation.

One afternoon towards the end of February they were standing by the balustrade of the Pincio watching the sunset. The sky was a gorgeous riot of crimson and gold, across which were flung like flaunting royal pennants, long streamers of dark purple clouds. The very air was luminous and golden, and the bells ringing for vespers in the amethyst and grey city below, filled the ear with triumphant clangour. The carriages were leaving the drive and rolled by silently under the grey-green ilexes, the noise of the horses and of the wheels drowned by the ringing of the bells. Ragna stood in ecstasy, her hands tightly clasped, looking out over the sea of roofs and towers to where the great Dome rose bubble-like, silhouetted against the glowing sky. Her face was flushed, her eyes shining, her parted lips quivered. Mirko watching her said to himself:

"She is ready."

She gave a sigh of deep enjoyment and murmured, "It is like what one would imagine Heaven to be!" Mirko echoed her sigh; she turned and her eyes met his and there was that in his glance, which caused her to lower her eyes and her heart to beat suddenly quicker.

"It is like Paradise," he said, "but the essential is lacking; it is like a beautiful woman without a soul."

Ragna made no answer and he continued dreamily as though thinking aloud:

"All is perfect—the stage is ready for the players—the outward semblance is awaiting the soul to animate it."

He paused again, but the girl still remained silent. Presently he addressed her directly:

"I told you I would unveil to you the spirit of Italy, I have done my part—the rest lies with you."

"I do not understand what you mean," she answered. "I think you have opened my eyes—what is there still to learn?"

"I have shown you the form, the outward shape, but you have not yet penetrated the spirit," he said, and his voice had the softness of a caress. "You have not guessed what is the real soul of Italy—that which makes her, though in ruins, the Soul of the World?"

"And that 'soul' is—?" she asked in a voice so faint he could hardly catch it.

"Love," he said, and taking her unresisting hand pressed it.

"Love," he repeated presently, and his musical voice aroused all the echoes in her heart. "Italy is love, and love is the spirit of Italy. That is why lovers come here; there is love magic in the air, and those who are destined to love cannot escape it. You," he said, looking into her eyes, "you were born to love and be loved, do you not feel that it is so?"

A deep blush crept over Ragna's cheeks, she drew her hand from his.

"Hush, this is folly. You must not talk to me like that!"

Now that he had spoken she wished that he had not, yet she knew now that for days past she had been waiting for him to say just this. She felt at the same time guiltily conscious of her delight that he should speak to her in this way and terrified lest he should continue.

"Ah," said Mirko, "why should you fear the awakening of your soul? A woman who has not loved, who does not love is a sweet instrument out of tune. Love brings you into harmony with the music of the Universe. Do you not want to learn all that life has to teach? The Book of Love is here for you to open, you have but to stretch forth your hand."

Ragna stood listening fascinated. No one had ever talked to her like this. The recollection of her Norwegian suitors rose to her mind and she scorned them in her heart. Who of them all could have spoken like this? This was fairyland, and the fairy Prince was at her side.

"Ragna," his voice caressed her, "Ragna, my Star of the North, tell me have you not felt it, the magic spell?"

She raised her eyes to his, and there passed from him to her a magnetic current that seized and shook her innermost being. It frightened her; with an effort she turned her eyes away and the spell was broken. She passed her hands to her heart, then stretched them out before her as though to thrust him away.

"Oh, you must not!" she cried, "indeed you must not!"

"Have I said anything that could offend you? Surely not! I would die rather than offend you, dear little friend!"

The word reassured her and soothed her conscience; how could she explain that it was far more the look than the words?

"Perhaps you misunderstood me," he continued, "but I did not think you would, I thought we knew each other too well for that!" He spoke as though wounded by a misconstruction put upon his sincerity.

Ragna felt foolish.

"I shall try not to offend you again," he said presently, and very humbly, "but you must bear me good-will enough not to look for offence where none is intended."

The girl smiled at him by way of answer.

It was growing rapidly dark and a guardia di pubblico sicurezza passing by, eyed the isolated couple curiously, but also with the sympathy every Latin feels for a pair of lovers. The bells had long since ceased ringing and many lights twinkled in the city below. In the sky stood a fair large planet and Mirko drew Ragna's attention to it.

"Venus, the Star of Love," he said briefly, with no comment, but his voice emphasized the words.

Ragna turned and they walked to the Spanish Stairs. As they passed the TrinitÀ del Monte a voice came out to them, a soprano voice marvellously clear and vibrant, the pure high notes almost startling in their passionate intensity.

"How beautiful!" said Ragna, and Mirko answered:

"But how sad! Think of a woman who can put that into her singing, eating her heart out in a cloister!"

As they descended the stairs Ragna looked up again at the white planet nearing the horizon, a whiter glow seemed to be overtaking the star, drowning it in a diffused effulgence.

"The moon is casting poor Venus in the shade."

"Ah, yes, she is wise to retire before the moon! Listen, Ragna, to-morrow the moon will be full,—you must give me the evening, we shall go to see the Colosseum by moonlight!"

"The evening? Oh, never! It would be impossible! It is bad enough for me to be out alone as late as this; Fru Bjork does not like it, I shall be scolded when I go in."

"You can manage it well enough, if you want to. Think of it! The Colosseum by moonlight—and there is no possible danger from malaria at this time of year."

"It would be lovely," she said wistfully, "but I don't see how I could—"

"Oh, easily! At dinner you say you have a headache and go to your room, and when all the people are in the drawing-room, you slip out quietly and I shall be waiting for you below."

"But how could I get in again?"

Mirko smiled at her simplicity.

"Tell the chambermaid you will give her a little present if she sits up for you."

"But will she?"

"As certainly as she is an Italian; she will love to think she is making the way easy for a pair of innamorati."

"Oh!" said Ragna.

"Of course," said Mirko, "we are not innamorati, we are friends,—but she would not understand the distinction," he smiled to himself, "and in any case how can it matter to you what she supposes?"

"I won't promise to come," declared Ragna; still the charm of such an escapade appealed to her romantic imagination—and after all, there was no real harm in it!

Mirko was satisfied and took advantage of the dusk to kiss her hand twice when he had put her in a "botte" in the Piazza di Spagna. The act had lost its significance to her since she had come to Italy and had seen how generally it was practised, but this evening the pressure of Mirko's lips sent a thrill through her fingers.

As she lay in her bed that night, Mirko's words: "I would rather die than offend you!" rang in her ears and she smiled happily.

Dinner was drawing to an end and the long Pension dining-room was filled with a hubbub of conversation in many languages. Estelle Hagerup and Astrid were having a lively discussion on the advantages of matrimony as compared with single blessedness.

"I say," declared Estelle, "that no man living is worth a woman's giving up her whole life to him. Why should she? Why should the woman always give up to the man? Then there is the monotony of it. I should be tired to death of seeing the same face across the breakfast table every day in the year, and year in, year out!"

"You needn't look at him then," said Astrid, "or you could make him sit at the side, or have your breakfast in bed. Now I think it must be such a comfort to have someone to grumble at, and who is obliged to listen to you!"

"Oh, my dear, you'll find that all the grumbling won't be on your side!"

"I hope I shall bring my husband up too well for that!" said Astrid. Estelle snorted.

"If only my dear Peter were alive!" sighed Fru Bjork, "he was such an amiable man. I never knew him to grumble."

"Ah, well, there's no telling," said Estelle, "he might have in time."

"My blessed Peter would never have grumbled," said Fru Bjork with finality. Astrid giggled.

"I should hate a man with no spirit, there would be no satisfaction in managing him."

The old Swedish lady raised her head.

"My dear, it is most unseemly for a young woman to talk of 'managing' her husband. Young people nowadays have lost the virtue of obedience."

"Obedience is for children and the feeble-minded," said Astrid. The old lady gasped and raised her mittened hand.

"My dear, my dear, a wife should always obey her husband!"

"Well, I shan't when I'm married."

FrÖken Hagerup interposed:

"You'll find that you'll have to, to keep the peace."

"Keep the peace indeed! That will be Edvard's business. Ragna, why don't you say something?"

Ragna had been sitting silent; on being addressed she started and dropped her fork.

"I—I have a headache." Her cheeks flamed at the lie. Fru Bjork looked at her anxiously.

"I do hope you are not going to be ill, child! I am sure you have been tiring yourself out with all this going about alone, I don't half like it!"

"Stuff and nonsense," said Estelle, "she never looked better in her life! A night's rest and she will be all right again. You should not walk in the sun," she said to Ragna; "it is dangerous at this season of the year. It is probably that that gave you your headache."

"I believe Ragna's in love with somebody," said Astrid, "all this mooning about alone is a symptom, and she's losing her appetite, too."

"Nonsense!" said Ragna angrily. "I am a bit tired, but as Estelle says, a night's rest will set me right. I think I shall go to bed now."

"I think you are right, Ragna," said Fru Bjork. "Take some quinine and cover yourself well. I shall come a little later to see if you are comfortable."

"Oh, please don't," said Ragna. "I feel quite sleepy already. I assure you there is nothing to worry about, I had rather no one came, it might wake me up."

Fru Bjork looked hurt.

"As you like," she said, and Ragna hated herself for her ungraciousness.

"Oh, why wasn't I born diplomatic?" she thought.

Astrid was looking at her rather maliciously through her lashes. The headache had not deceived her, but she had no suspicion of the truth; she thought that absence might have played advocate for some despised Christiania swain; she wondered who it might be, and promised herself that she would find out at the first opportunity.

When they rose from the table, Ragna went to her room and ostentatiously called for hot water. The others repaired to the drawing-room, where the old Swedish lady established herself with alacrity in the most comfortable armchair. A lady of uncertain nationality opened the pianoforte and played with faultless technique and absolutely no expression, selections from Beethoven and Chopin, and the rest of the company disposed themselves about the room, some reading, some sewing, some talking in small groups. Astrid withdrew to a window-recess with the art-student, with whom she had begun a mild flirtation. Fru Bjork settled herself near the fire and took out her knitting; her brow was furrowed and she puckered up her mouth. She was more worried about Ragna than she cared to admit; certainly the girl looked the picture of health, but she had been oddly absent-minded of late, and had seemed so evidently to prefer going about alone that gradually the other members of the party had given up offering to accompany her. Then her headache of this evening—.

"I do hope the child is not going to be ill," repeated the good woman to herself; she drew out a needle at the end of the row and meditatively scratched her head with it.

Ragna, meanwhile, was devoured by a fever of excitement. Unable to sit still she paced up and down her room; her hands trembled and she felt curious nervous qualms through her body. She pinned on her hat with unsteady fingers, drew on her gloves and threw a long dark cloak about her. When enough time had elapsed for all to be well settled in the drawing-room, she cautiously opened her door and locking it behind her, stole down the passage, at the end of which a chambermaid was crocheting lace by the light of an oil lamp.

"Rosa," said Ragna in a low voice, "I am going out but I don't wish anyone to know of it. If you will let me in very quietly when I come back—I shan't be late—I will give you a present. I shall knock on the door with my knuckles three times,—like this. Do you understand?"

"Si, Signorina," answered the maid, showing her white teeth in a smile. It was a sly understanding smile that made Ragna hot and uncomfortable. She felt Rosa's curious eyes upon her as she went on down the passageway to the door. In another minute she was flying down the poorly-lit stairs; at the foot of the last flight a dark figure detached itself from the surrounding gloom and came towards her.

"I thought you were never coming," said Mirko. His voice had an odd triumphant note, but Ragna in her excitement failed to notice it. He drew her arm through his and hurried her out and across the shadow side of the Piazza, to where a carriage was waiting.

"Al Coliseo!" he said to the driver.

Ragna sat in a constrained attitude, her eyes cast down.

"Now," said Mirko, "you look as though you were embarking on a crime. I ask you what harm is there in this little escapade?"

"I do so hate to deceive them all! What would Fru Bjork say if she knew?"

"Has she never been young herself? If you knew, Ragna, the memories that half these good and prudish ladies carry under their starched fronts, you would be surprised. There is a proverb that says, 'when you are too old to give yourself to the Devil it is time to turn to God!'" Then seeing she looked shocked; "there, don't mind what I say,—I am so glad you have come that I am not half responsible. You can take my word for it that you are doing nothing very terrible. Do you think for a moment I would ask you to?"

"No," she answered.

"And you are glad you came?"

"I feel as if I were being carried off by a brigand," said Ragna.

The Prince wore a broad-brimmed soft felt hat casting the upper part of his face into deep shadow, he had thrown round him an Italian military cloak, the folds of which flung up and over his left shoulder had the grace of a toga. He really looked not unlike the gallant brigand of romance.

"Oh, indeed!" he laughed, "and supposing I were to carry you off, far away across the Campagne to a castle in the hills and hold you for ransom, what then?"

"What ransom would you set on me?"

"A ransom no one could pay but yourself—a king's ransom: your love. And the day you give it you would be free to go—if you so wished." He spoke jestingly but his voice had a deep undertone that thrilled the girl.

"Would you pay the ransom, oh, captive?"

"Even a captive lady could not love to order," laughed Ragna.

"But could you not love a man, who for love of you carried you away from all the world and made you his by force? I think you would—every woman is really a Sabine at heart!"

Ragna was spared the necessity of answering by the carriage drawing up at the entrance to the Colosseum.

"Shall we keep him?" asked Mirko, as he helped her to alight.

"No! no. Let us walk back."

Mirko dismissed the vetturino, who with much cracking of his whip, made his way to the nearest osteria there to drink the health of the mad forestieri who would risk any sort of "malanno" to see an old ruin by moonlight.

The moon rode high in the heavens and the great building stood out clear and sharp in the silvery light, the inky shadows seemed pregnant with mystery. Ragna almost looked to see the ghosts of martyrs in horrid procession, threading the gloomy archways. A shadow in the arena seemed a pool of blood. Above, in the tribunes, bloodthirsty multitudes had watched, breathless, the matchless show,—and well might the Vestal-virgins cover their faces, of what avail the fate deciding thumb when maidens and lions meet in the amphitheatre?

"Is it not wonderful?" asked Mirko.

"Wonderful, but horrible," said Ragna, "if ghosts walk anywhere on earth, surely they must walk here! Think of all these walls have looked down on!"

"Yes, the Games, the glorious Games!" he replied eagerly. "Oh, to have seen it in its pomp and pride! Think of it, Ragna,—the people, the colours in the sunlight, the purple velarium up there against the sky, the CÆsar, the Senate, the Vestals,—and the gladiators in the ring!"

"I was thinking of the martyrs," said Ragna.

"Oh, the martyrs! Poor fools! After all it was their own fault."

His slight sneer grated on the girl's mood.

"They were glorious," she said indignantly, "they had the courage of their convictions. They proved their strength,—they were stronger than CÆsar, stronger than Rome,—their death was their victory!"

Her eyes shone, and Mirko, looking at her face upturned in the moonlight, thought he had never seen her so beautiful, transfigured as she was, by her enthusiasm.

"Would you have the courage of your convictions?" he asked suddenly.

"I—I don't know. Which convictions, for instance?"

"Well, if you did not believe in marriage, would you have the courage to override public opinion?"

"But I do believe in marriage," she said simply.

"Do you believe that love can be bound with a chain, then?"

"There should be no question of binding—A marriage without love is no marriage at all in my eyes."

He smiled at her earnest simplicity.

"That is all very well—for you," he said, "but for me? I may not marry to please myself."

His voice had a caressing cadence, charged with regret, his eyes were mournful under the long lashes. Perhaps for the moment he was really a victim to self pity. Like most emotional people, he was apt to believe in the sincerity of a passing feeling, even the appropriate pose of the hour investing him with a fleeting reality of sentiment.

"No," said Ragna, "that is true. You cannot be free to follow your heart, it is part of the price you must pay."

"The price is heavy."

They stood silent a time, then Mirko spoke again in a deep voice.

"I love you, Ragna, you know it—you must have seen it. I did not mean to tell you, I have been fighting it down, but here in the moonlight it is too strong for me. I love you, and it is not within my power to marry you. I must go away, and perhaps never see you again; I have loved you ever since those days on the Norje"—this was untrue but he said it with conviction, even felt it—"and you love me darling, you can't deny it. Oh, cara, carissima, look at me, let me see your eyes!"

His arm had stolen round her, she raised her head, and he saw that bright drops glittered on her lashes. In a flash his mouth was on hers and she returned his kiss. She stood unresisting in his embrace, leaning against him, her whole form quivering, then after a moment, gently freed herself and walked a few paces away, her head bent, clasping and unclasping her hands. He followed her and would have taken her in his arms again but she stopped him.

"What's the use?" she asked in a hoarse voice, "we have no right,—you can't marry me. You must not—" her voice broke.

"But you love me," cried Mirko, a passionate gladness ringing in his voice. "You do love me! Surely we have the right to a little happiness!"

"No," she answered slowly, "no, it is impossible. You must go away. This is not your destiny. You will be King some day, your country, your people, claim you."

"I will give it all up for you, Ragna!" He knew that he would not, but promises come easily, by moonlight.

"No," she repeated, "you must go; we must part."

"But if you love me—"

"If I love you?"

"What need is there to part? If you loved me enough."

"Oh," she cried, suffocating, as his meaning dawned on her, "Oh! Do you take me for that?"

She sprang back, her breast heaving, tears rising to her eyes.

"Take you for what, dear? For a woman who would love me better than all the world beside? Do you think that an insult?"

"You—you would make me your—," she could not bring herself to say the word.

Prince Mirko executed a masterly retreat.

"My child!" he cried in a horrified voice. "What do you imagine? I mean that where true love is, there can be no parting. Far or near, those who love are always united."

"Oh," said Ragna dubiously, "I thought you meant—"

Mirko fixed his mournful eyes upon her.

"Did I not tell you yesterday that I would rather die than harm you?" he asked reproachfully.

Ragna hung her head, ashamed.

"You have no confidence in me—and yet I deserve it," he said bitterly.

"I have confidence in you; it was only that I did not understand, I was afraid—"

"Do you wish to give me a proof of your confidence, dear one?"

"Yes," said Ragna, "what shall I do?" she was ashamed of her suspicion and eager to atone.

"We have so little time left to us—only a few days, then our ways part,—let us be lovers for that little time, as if we were betrothed, as if we were to marry like ordinary people. Will you, dear? It can do no harm—just a game of 'pretend' as the children say, and we shall have those days to look back on all our lives!"

He sank to one knee, holding her clasped hands in his own, the folds of his long cloak sweeping the ground. That, and the felt hat gave him the appearance of a cavalier of romance. It was splendidly theatrical—but it harmonized with the setting and the hour. His eyes, soft and burning, held hers.

Why not? thought Ragna, a little romance,—a little happiness, a gorgeous illusion, and the light would go out. Why not make the most of the golden hours—there would be enough grey ones in the future to compensate amply for the delicious fraud. Instinct warned her of hidden danger—but had he not said:

"I would rather die than harm you!"

The pressure of his hand was insistent.

"Very well," she said faintly, "I will."

He sprang to his feet and clasped her in his arms, covering her face with kisses.

"Oh!" she cried struggling, "you must not! It is not right!"

"Are you not my fiancÉe, my little love?" he asked in a pained voice. "What hurt can my kisses do you? Oh, Ragna!"

He kissed her again, and this time she did not resist.

When he released her she was breathless and her head swam; she could feel her heart leaping in her bosom and she pressed her hands upon it to still its wild beating. Her face was white as marble and her eyes shone strangely as though illuminated by fires within. In that moment, Mirko really loved her; her confidence appealed to all that was best in him, so realizing that he would not trust himself further he made the move to go.

"It is late Anima mia, I must take you home now."

He encircled her waist with his arm under cover of her cloak and they walked slowly back through the dark streets to the Piazza Montecitorio, talking as they went. Or rather it was Mirko who talked and Ragna listened, held in thrall by the musical voice of her lover. It did not occur to her that to make love with such mÆstria presupposes a large and varied experience.

He left her with a kiss under the gloomy portone, and she sped up the stairs, wondering how she should explain her absence in case of discovery. There was no need, however, for Rosa promptly answered her timid knocking, and at a sign from her followed her to her room.

"Here," said Ragna, taking a little brooch from its case and tendering it to the maid, "take this, Rosa,—it is the little present I spoke of."

"Ma Signorina, che le pare?" exclaimed Rosa with great deprecation, "it is much too fine for me,—I will take nothing for so small a service. It is a night made by the good God for lovers, do I not understand that? I also have an innamorato, Signorina!"

Ragna, who two hours earlier would have felt unspeakably humiliated by such a speech, now was conscious of a fellow feeling for the girl—such is the freemasonry of love. She smiled and tucking the trinket into Rosa's hand, said:

"Then you will wear this to remember me by, and also to look well in the eyes of your fidanzato."

"Grazie Signorina, a thousand thanks! And may your innamorato be as faithful as you are beautiful."

"Faithful," repeated Ragna to herself when she had closed the door behind the retreating form of the maid. "What is faithlessness,—memory? For us there can be no other."

It pleased her to think of her romance as set apart from the common lot.

"It is an oasis in the desert," she thought,—"it will be as he says, something to look back on all our lives."

For a long time she lay awake, gazing into the dark, her pulses throbbing as she thought of his kisses.