alone in the pleasant, dreamy garden on the summit of the height. For
three hours he had been tramping about with the guide's voice buzzing in
his ears. The worthy man was now talking of his friendship for France and
relating the battle of Magenta in great detail. He smiled as he took the
piece of silver which Pierre offered him, and then started on the battle
of Solferino. Indeed, it seemed impossible to stop him, when fortunately
a lady came up to ask for some information. And, thereupon, he went off
with her. "Good-evening, Monsieur l'Abbe," he said; "you can go down by
way of Caligula's palace."

Delightful was Pierre's relief when he was at last able to rest for a
moment on one of the marble seats in the garden. There were but few
clumps of trees, cypresses, box-trees, palms, and some fine evergreen
oaks; but the latter, sheltering the seat, cast a dark shade of exquisite
freshness around. The charm of the spot was also largely due to its
dreamy solitude, to the low rustle which seemed to come from that ancient
soil saturated with resounding history. Here formerly had been the
pleasure grounds of the Villa Farnese which still exists though greatly
damaged, and the grace of the Renascence seems to linger here, its breath
passing caressingly through the shiny foliage of the old evergreen oaks.
You are, as it were, enveloped by the soul of the past, an ethereal
conglomeration of visions, and overhead is wafted the straying breath of
innumerable generations buried beneath the sod.

After a time, however, Pierre could no longer remain seated, so powerful
was the attraction of Rome, scattered all around that august summit. So
he rose and approached the balustrade of a terrace; and beneath him
appeared the Forum, and beyond it the Capitoline hill. To the eye the
latter now only presented a commingling of grey buildings, lacking both
grandeur and beauty. On the summit one saw the rear of the Palace of the