We entered the carriage. The count wrapped us in a magnificent feather
robe, such as the Montezumas wore, for the April nights in Rome are
chill, however hot the sunshine. It was strange to see the Forum,
ordinarily solitary and desolate, now thronged with an eager multitude
on foot and with numerous open carriages, in which were seated ladies in
full dress as at the opera with us. Arriving at the Coliseum, we left
the carriage and passed through the huge portal. The gloomy arches were
obscurely seen in the dusky Roman twilight, when suddenly, as if by
magic, every arch and crevice of the gigantic ruin glowed, incarnadined,
as if dyed with the blood of the martyrs that had drenched its soil.
There were salvos of artillery, bursts of military music and a few vivas
from the multitude. A brilliant spectacle, but the tender beauty of
moonlight harmonizes better with the solemnity of ruins.

Rapt in the memories that the scene awakened, I paid little attention to
the monologue of my Italian friend, when I was suddenly roused by the
question, "Did you ever see a prettier couple?"

"Who?" I asked absently.

"There," he rejoined, pointing to the count and Miss St. Clair, who
preceded us.

"He is too young," I replied, but the question was asked so
significantly that it disturbed me a little, and I resolved to be more
cautious than heretofore.

The next morning Piero appeared with his carriage to take us to the
Baths of Caracalla. He hoped madame did not lose the illumination. He