The end of Carnival was approaching and many shops displayed dominoes, masks and various disguises and travesties in their windows. The merry madness was in the air and all Rome was keyed up to a pitch of wild gaiety, so soon to relapse into devotional gloom.

Fru Bjork had taken tickets to the veglione in the Costanzi Theatre, and Astrid was wild with anticipation. She raged at the indifference displayed by Ragna, who was so absorbed in her fool's Paradise that the veglione might as well not have existed. Her detachment was the more noticeable as even Estelle Hagerup had caught the contagion of excitement and was feverishly weighing the rival advantages of a pea-green domino and a purple one. Astrid had chosen pale blue, but Ragna when pressed decided on black.

She had promised to spend the day of the veglione with Prince Mirko. They were to drive out into the country, far from the noisy merry-making, and though he had not said so, she felt that it was to be their last day together—the time for separation was approaching, the end of the idyll at hand.

So on the morning of that fateful mardi gras she met him, as arranged, by the Pantheon. He was waiting with a botte, drawn by two strong little Maremmano horses with pheasant feathers stuck in their head-stalls and tinkling bells on the harness. The driver, a bronzed aquiline featured Roman, beamed on her as she approached, having often driven them on shorter excursions.

Mirko helped her in and took his place beside her, laying on her lap a huge bunch of fragrant white narcissus and violets. She buried her face in the flowers, breathing the perfume voluptuously.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Oh, quite out, over the Campagna, away from everything and everybody."

He squeezed her hand and she smiled happily.

It was warm for the season, almost sultry, as the Scirocco was blowing. The sun was comfortably hot, but heavy clouds banking the horizon promised rain before night-fall.

They drove out the Via Appia past the tomb of Cecilia Metella; the green grass springing fresh between the mortuary tablets bordering the way, and from the walls showed the rapid advance of spring, and as they left the city farther behind, the whole Campagna in new radiance of colour appeared to them as a bride arrayed for her wedding day. The pale pink of the almond blossom in delicate tracery against the deep blue of the sky, the rich dark ilexes with light green tender shoots, the silvery grey of the olives, all looked more like a fairy picture than anything that could possibly be real. This awakening of Nature, this decking out of all the Earth in bridal array, could not but have its effect on the lovers. All creation was breaking into bud and blossom, the spirit of love permeated the very air with the mysterious intoxication of the new running sap in the trees, the awakening to life of the flowers, the song of the birds. It was the mating season.

Mirko and Ragna sat in silence, his right hand closed on her left; she felt strong vibrations passing from his hand to hers, she was burning with a vague mysterious excitement too deep for expression.

Mirko's eyes were fixed on her face; he watched her colour come and go, noted the soft shadow of her lashes on her cheek; the impulse of spring flamed in his blood. The tantalising nearness of the girl was too much for his fiery southern temperament, he was rapidly losing his head.

They drove far out over the Campagna, until the city behind them was swallowed up in the undulations of the great grassy plain. Groups of people bound citywards passed them, many of them enlivening the way with snatches of song. A soft damp breeze laden with the composite spring fragrance blew up from the sea. Presently a turn of the road brought them to an old acqueduct; many of the arches lay in ruins, but here and there groups of them still intact, stood upright in the sunshine. Ragna looking at them suddenly remembered her dream on board the Norje, and Ingeborg's prediction. Were these the actual stone arches of her dream? She glanced at Mirko; his eyes were devouring her, they had a wolfish expression; a shiver of fear passed over her and she drew her hand from his in a quick gesture of alarm.

"Oh, don't look at me like that! You frighten me. Your eyes look like the eyes of a wild beast, as if you wanted to tear me limb from limb."

Mirko flushed and his expression changed.

"Silly!" he said, but his voice was hoarse and sounded strange in her ears. "Silly! May I not look at you? Do you know that you are very beautiful to-day? I must fill my eyes with your dear image, so that I may have you with me always,—even when you are far away."

Ragna partially reassured, glanced at him shyly through her lashes.

"You really did frighten me, you looked so fierce, so—so hungry!"

He laughed. "I am hungry—hungry for you. But that is nothing new!"

They relapsed into silence again, but there was a strange constraint upon them. The sun's rays were very hot with that sickly heat felt just before a shower. The scent of the narcissus rose insistent and too sweet. Ragna felt uneasy; although Mirko was outwardly the same as he had always been, she divined a change in him, a mysterious subtle change that set him over against her as an enemy from whom she must defend herself. She could not explain to herself this newborn antagonism, she only felt it dimly,—and at the same time there arose riotous within her the call of the springtide, urging her towards him.

The vetturino drew up jingling before the door of an osteria,—that of the "Sora Nanna," the sign proclaimed. Some deal tables and benches stood under the budding pergola, and at them a few contadini on their way to the festa were indulging in modest libations of "vino dei Castelli"—advertised at thirty, forty and fifty centesimi the measure, on placards hanging at the entrance.

As the botte drew up to the door, the hostess, a stout, wholesome looking woman appeared, bowing and wiping her hands on her apron.

"The Signori would descend? Luncheon? Most certainly,—their Excellencies should be served immediately—Maria! wring the neck of a chicken! Would their Excellencies eat in the common room, in the sala, with contadini? There was a most clean and conveniente chamber above, where they would be much better, non È vero?"

She bustled in ahead of them, shooing chickens as she went, and chattering volubly. They followed her through the brick-paved kitchen, gloomy, after the bright light outside. One end of it was taken up by an immense brick stove, in which were sunk numerous wells for charcoal. A large pot bubbled merrily on one of these and most savoury odours arose from a collection of copper stew-pans of all sizes. Hams, salami and bunches of herbs hung from the smoky rafters. A girl with large hoop earrings and a bright kerchief about her neck was sitting on a low stool peeling potatoes and singing lustily the song of the "Ciociara"—"E quando la Ciociara si marita"—she sang to the rollicking air. A ray of sunlight coming through the window gilded her hair and touched the coral beads on her round brown throat.

Sora Nanna led the way up a stone stair to a large light upper chamber. The floor like that of the kitchen was of bare brick well scrubbed, a table stood in the centre with some straight-backed chairs. On the walls hung prints of Garibaldi, King Umberto and Queen Margherita taken at the time of their marriage, and Vittorio Emanuele II with a fierce moustache and a truculent eye. A couch stood against the wall, and in the far corner a large white bed flanked by a primitive dressing-table. Ragna shrank back, but the hostess bustled cheerfully forward.

"Many cacciatori, Signori of Rome and forestieri have I entertained here," she said, throwing open the windows. "Ah, they all know the Sora Nanna's cellar and the frittata. A frittata with artichokes, that is what I shall give your Excellencies!"

"I would rather go downstairs," whispered Ragna.

"Come now," said Mirko, "you can't sit in the kitchen with the contadini! This room is clean and it will do very well."

"Can't we sit outside under the pergola?"

Mirko pointed to the clouds fast obscuring the sunshine. "It will be raining in a few minutes."

Ragna thought it would be foolish to object further, and she tried to throw off the uneasy feeling that possessed her.

"Your Excellencies shall be served in half an hour," said the hostess, as she bustled out, shaking her head at the madness of people who came out to the country when they might be enjoying the Carnival in Rome.

Ragna went to one of the windows and leaned on the sill, looking out. The vetturino was leading his horses to a shed in the rear, and Maria, the girl who had been singing in the kitchen, was displaying a generous expanse of red stocking as she pursued an elusive chicken. The contadini under the arbour below made merry at her expense and praised her well-developed charms and neat ankles.

The Campagna rolled away as far as the eye could reach, an inland sea of grass, dotted here and there with trees; far away the broken acqueduct straggled across it. The fleeting shadows chased each other over the rolling surface as the clouds gathered, and the air was damp and sultry, charged with the sweet scent of spring, stealing over the senses like mellow wine. Mirko came up behind Ragna as she stood and kissed her neck behind the ear where the short hairs made golden tendrils. She thrilled at the touch of his lips but did not turn her head. During these days of their pseudo betrothal, she had gradually grown accustomed to various loverlike familiarities, which from day to day had become more daring, and she had come to accept as natural, liberties on the part of her lover, from which she would have recoiled, shocked and horrified, ten days earlier. In love as in everything else, it is the first step that costs.

"Why do you not take off your hat, dear?" said Mirko. "It will be so much cosier if you take off your hat. We will pretend we are on our honeymoon.—Come! let us be quite mad and gay—remember it is Carnival!"

The words suited her mood; suddenly she felt reckless, she smiled her answer.

"Wait here a minute," said Mirko and he bounded down the stair. Ragna quickly unpinned her hat, and laid it on the dressing table, she fluffed up her hair where it had been crushed, and went back to the window, watching with amused sympathy the merry party below. Her spirits had recovered from the depression of a few moments since, she felt daring, buoyed up by a strange sensation of irresponsibility—the spring was having its effect on her also.

Presently Mirko returned, followed by the bouncing Maria who set the table still humming her song. Ragna caught the words.

"E se vuoi la robba mia, È certo che caro la devi pagar!"

"That is a very jolly song," said Ragna.

"Si, signora," said Maria showing her even white teeth in a broad smile.—"It is sung all through Ciociaria and everywhere!" She ran down to the kitchen and reappeared bearing a large bowl of steaming gnocchi and two cobwebby bottles of gold-coloured wine.

"Come," said Mirko, "your Ladyship is served."

Ragna laughingly took her place at the table and they both fell to with healthy appetites. Mirko saw that Ragna's glass was kept replenished with the wine. "Proprio di dietro i fagotti," the hostess had declared it. After the gnocchi came stewed chicken and potatoes, then the famous frittata with artichokes and a salad, then cheese, and finally, Maria having asked if the Signori wished anything more, retired, closing the door after her.

The wine was singing in Ragna's ears, and her face was flushed, it seemed to her that she was in a dream in which she had become two distinct persons,—one a long way off, watching as at a play, what the other Ragna did. Mirko rose from his chair and led her to the couch where he seated himself beside her. He drew her head down on his shoulder and holding her close to him murmured his love in her ear. His nearness, his kisses and the low, passionate vibration of his voice overpowered her; she felt all power of resistance slip from her, his personality, his desire dominated her entirely; her lips parted, she closed her eyes, her senses swam. As in a dream, his lips found hers, she felt the heat of his breath scorching her face, a wild flame surged through her veins,—a brief almost unconscious struggle and she lay unresisting in his arms.

When she came to herself again a sudden gloom pervaded the place. Large drops of rain splashed on the window-sill. She watched them idly a moment, then her eyes wandered to the other window where Mirko stood leaning, pulling at his moustache, then down to herself. Suddenly a gulf of realization and shame overwhelmed her. With a hasty hand she straightened out her skirts, then flung herself down, sobbing, her burning face hidden in the cushion.

At the sound Mirko turned and came towards her, an exceedingly sheepish expression on his handsome face.

"Don't, love!" he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. She writhed away from him.

"Don't, dear," he repeated awkwardly, and as the girl paid no attention, he knelt at her side and kissed all that was visible of one ear. She sat up, wild-eyed and disheveled.

"Oh, how could you?" she sobbed, "oh, why did you do it? Oh, how can I ever look anyone in the face again!"

She flung herself down again, her voice lost in a paroxysm of grief.

Mirko bit his moustache; scenes of this kind annoyed him terribly and now that his fever had passed he could think of nothing to say. Presently Ragna faced him once more.

"You despise me, don't you?" she asked.

"Never! Never in the world, my darling!" he cried but his voice carried no conviction. "I owe you all gratitude!"

"Oh!" she said, her eyes widening, a hard look coming over her face, "oh!"

He lifted her limp hand and kissed it.

"I am your devoted slave,—you have given me the greatest proof of love—"

"What are you going to do about it?" she interrupted.

"Do about it. What is there to do? The memory of this—"

"Ah, so it is already a memory to you! To me it is dishonour."

"My dear child, nothing of the sort! We loved each other, we lost our heads,—there is no dishonour, no one need know."

His ineffectual manner struck her like a blow. Covering her face with her hands she burst into fresh sobs.

Mirko like all men, hated above all things a scene; he began to feel angry, revengeful even, the more so as his conscience reproached him. He said in a hard voice:

"Look here, Ragna, you are not a fool, you knew I could not marry you—"

Her scornful eyes stopped him; he shrugged his shoulders.

"My dear girl, if you had not wished—I have never taken a woman against her will—"

"You coward!" she said her eyes blazing.

He rose and strolling to the window carefully chose a cigarette from his case and as carefully lit it, but in spite of himself his hands trembled. Ragna sat immovable on the sofa as though turned to stone. The rain pattered softly on the window-sill and the warm heavy dampness invaded the room. Below, in the kitchen, someone was clattering pots and pans, and Maria's voice took up the refrain of the "Ciociara." The lively tune rose, a ghastly mockery, and Ragna smiled at the irony of it, then a fresh wave of despair swept over her, her shaken nerves gave way, and dropping her head on her folded hands she wept disconsolately and brokenly. The forlornness of her attitude, the bowed head with its dishevelled mass of golden hair, the slender shoulders heaving with noiseless sobs touched Mirko; he threw his cigarette out of the window with an angry gesture and paced up and down the long narrow room, tugging at his moustache and knitting his brows. The mood of brutality like that of a sated animal had passed and a reaction of something very like shame, set in—shame be it said, not for having taken advantage of a confiding girl, but for the unchivalrous cynicism of his subsequent conduct which he could see no way of glossing over. A woman may forgive passion, brutality even, but not the poisoned barb of cynicism. His vanity refused to consider the situation irretrievable notwithstanding, and he paused beside the weeping girl.

"Ragna," he said, "forgive me! I have behaved like a brute and I deserve to be kicked."

The accent of sincere regret in his voice was like balm to the girl's wounds; by his self-abasement she might recover a semblance, at least, of self-respect that would help her to tide over the present necessity. In a half subconscious way she realized that death does not come through the wishing for it, that a situation no matter how terrible must be lived through somehow,—but oh, to be alone!

"Poor child," said Mirko, stroking the silky waves of her hair, "I must have been mad! Will you not believe that I was mad, dear,—and forget all that I would have you forget?"

He knelt beside her putting one arm about her; with his free hand he forced her head up from her locked fingers and would have kissed the tears away, but she drew back with horror.

"Oh, no! Never again!"

"Ragna," he pleaded, "but you love me?"

"I did love you—once," she said in a toneless voice. "I did love you—too much."

"No, dearest, not too much—" he started but stopped silenced by the expression of her eyes.

"God knows," he said impulsively, "that I would give my life not to have hurt you! You were too beautiful,—you maddened me!"

She smiled a little scornfully, very sadly, and the smile condemned him in his own consciousness; in her eyes he saw reflected for the first time the futility of his declarations, the shallow selfishness of his nature. It seemed to him that he shrivelled morally under her gaze. To Ragna he had become a stranger, the dream hero was shattered irremediably; the scales had fallen from her eyes and with a pitilessly clear vision she had seen the paltry egoism of the man's soul. Something had snapped within her,—a light had gone out; she wondered dully if anything could matter very much again.

Mirko rose to his feet rather unsteadily and poured himself a glass of wine; as he raised it to his lips someone knocked on the door and he started, spilling half the contents of the glass. Maria's voice called cheerfully.

"The vetturino wants to know at what hour the Signori will start, it is getting late."

"Tell him we will start as soon as he is ready and send me the addizione," answered Mirko. He gulped down his wine, and then poured out another glass and carried it over to Ragna.

"Drink this," he ordered and she obeyed mechanically.

"Now," he said, "put on your hat and smooth your hair a little; don't let these people guess anything."

Ragna flushed, but her pride was touched as he had meant it to be. She rose with an effort and walked lifelessly over to the dressing-table. She wet the corner of her handkerchief in the jug and dabbled it on her dark-ringed reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks; taking out a little comb from the back of her hair she straightened up her stray locks and resettled her heavy plaits. She put on her hat and tied over it a thick blue veil she found in the pocket of her ulster. When she had finished, she walked to a chair, passing the couch with a shudder, and sat down dully.

Maria entered presently, carrying the bill on a plate; she looked curiously from the apathetic girl, shrouded in her heavy veil, to the self-possessed young man,—they were not like any lovers she had seen. "They must have quarreled," was her reflection. Mirko paid the modest bill and added a generous mancia at which the girl's eyes sparkled, and she thanked him effusively.

"Is the carriage ready?" he inquired.

"Sissignore, eccola quÀ!" As she spoke they heard the little trap rattling and jingling as it drew up outside. Mirko turned to Ragna:

"If you are ready, we will go."

She rose and avoiding his proffered hand, preceded him quickly down the stair and across the kitchen, walking head down, with a furtive air as though trying to escape observation. Maria and the hostess smiled significantly at each other as she passed.

She climbed unaided into the carriage and drew her skirts aside as Mirko entered. The hood was drawn up and a large water-proof apron covered their knees, another water-proof strip was fastened at one end to the hood and at the other to the large umbrella that sheltered the driver, so that they were almost in the dark and entirely shielded from the curious gaze of passers-by.

They sat in an oppressive silence; Ragna, her hands clasped on her knees, her eyes looking straight before her, her mouth set in a hard line, barely discernible through the thick veil. Mirko was most uncomfortable, and could think of nothing to say or do to relieve the situation. Finally, in desperation, he asked her permission to light a cigarette; she shrugged her shoulders in complete indifference and made no answer; he lit one and puffed away moodily, every now and again casting furtive glances at the girl's averted profile. She sat quite motionless, only shuddering slightly as they passed the ruined acqueduct. "The hare is run to earth," she thought bitterly. The drive seemed interminable; the carriage bumped on endlessly over the bad roads, the rain pattered unceasingly on the lowered hood, the driver urged on his steaming beasts in endless monotone—and so on and on and on. It was like a long bad dream.

As they came into the city, the rain stopped, but the air was heavy with a damp, soggy mist through which the street lamps glowed, each set in a luminous halo. The streets were full of a noisy merry crowd and the carriage made slow progress. Once it stopped altogether and a masked Pierrot climbed up on one step, a gay Harlequin on the other while a very masculine ballerina in draggled pink tarletan installed herself or himself beside the driver.

"TÒ!" said the Pierrot, and blew out a long paper sausage that squeaked as it collapsed; the Harlequin emptied a shovelful of confetti over the silent pair.

"Who is the mysterious princess?" squeaked the Pierrot, "Unveil! unveil, fair one!"

As Ragna paid no attention he snatched her veil from her face and fell into a pose of ecstatic mock admiration. Ragna threw herself back, alarmed.

"Here!" said Mirko, starting up angrily, "I won't have this! Let the lady alone, will you? Get down!"

"Pray, be more courteous!" mouthed Arlecchino, "In carnevale ogni scherzo vale." The crowd shrieked approval.

"Here, then," said Mirko, diving into his pocket and bestowing a gold piece on each masker, "go and drink to the health of your 'carnevale' with this."

The ballerina poked a long red cardboard nose down under the hood, squeaking in high falsetto.

"And poor Colombina? Don't forget poor Colombina!"

Mirko found another gold piece for Colombina and the three masks jumped down shouting joyously.

"Evviva gli sposi!"

The crowd took up the cry and it rang after the retreating carriage.

Mirko looked at Ragna deprecatingly, but meeting her scornful eyes, turned his own away.

When at last they reached the Piazza Montecitorio he insisted on helping her out, and holding her fast by the hand, asked her:

"Do you really hate me then, after all?"

She drew her hand away from him, and without looking at him said "Good-bye" with a finality of accent not to be mistaken; then the portone swallowed her up. Mirko, with a muttered oath clambered back into the carriage and drove to his hotel. As he entered the lobby he encountered the unexpected form of Angelescu.

"When did you come?" he asked in surprise.

"At noon, and I have been waiting for you ever since. I have a message for you from the King—" he spoke the last word in a whisper.

"The devil you have! What's up?"

"You'll know soon enough," said the other significantly.

"Am I to be restored to grace?"

"Oh, yes, but there is a certain amount of humble-pie to be eaten first. Also they are determined to clip your wings for the future—there is question of a marriage."

"Marriage—whew! Who is the lady, may I ask?"

Angelescu named a princess, Mirko's senior by several years and not renowned for her good looks. Mirko made a wry face.

"His Majesty is awfully keen on it, and if you were to upset the arrangement by any fresh escapades, I fancy your bed would not be of roses for some time to come—I hope you haven't been getting into any scrapes here?" He looked suspiciously at Mirko's tell-tale countenance.

"Come along, old man," said Mirko putting his arm through Angelescu's. "There is nothing very terrible—and nothing to be very proud of either; I'll tell you all about it presently. By the way I want you to do something for me to-night. I want you to take a message to a lady at the veglione."

"Why don't you go yourself?"

"I would rather not,—it might be embarrassing for both of us." He laughed uneasily. "Do you remember that little Andersen girl we met on a steamer the year we went to St. Petersburg?"

He felt Angelescu's arm stiffen under his, and had the light been stronger, he would have seen the bronzed cheek pale. They had reached Mirko's room and entered, closing the door after them.