arranging with the sacristan of the Pantheon to allow a party of
foreigners to visit the building at the full moon, at midnight. I have
no doubt he even expended a franc with the little man, who is very old
and dirty, and keeps chickens in the vestibule--but no details!

Oh the appointed night Nino, wrapped in that old cloak of mine (which
is very warm, though it is threadbare), accompanied the party to the
temple, or church, or whatever you like to call it. The party were
simply the count and his daughter, an Austrian gentleman of their
acquaintance, and the dear baroness--that sympathetic woman who broke
so many hearts and cared not at all for the chatter of the people.
Everyone has seen her, with her slim, graceful ways, and her face that
was like a mulatto peach for darkness and fineness, and her dark eyes
and tiger-lily look. They say she lived entirely on sweetmeats and
coffee, and it is no wonder she was so sweet and so dark. She called
me "count"--which is very foolish now, but if I were going to fall in
love, I would have loved her. I would not love a statue. As for the
Austrian gentleman, it is not of any importance to describe him.

These four people Nino conducted to the little entrance at the back of
the Pantheon, and the sacristan struck a light to show them the way to
the door of the church. Then he put out his taper, and let them do as
they pleased.

Conceive if you can the darkness of Egypt, the darkness that can be
felt, impaled and stabbed through its whole thickness by one mighty
moonbeam, clear and clean and cold, from the top to the bottom. All
around, in the circle of the outer black, lie the great dead in their
tombs, whispering to each other of deeds that shook the world;
whispering in a language all their own as yet--the language of the