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 was wretched to disappoint madame:  he begged a thousand pardons.  His little boy was taken violently ill:  he was forced to go for the doctor; madame was so good.

The truth flashed upon me:  “Piero, how much did the count give you to stay away last night?”

A gleam of humor twinkled in his black eyes, but it was speedily quenched:  “I do not understand what madame wishes to say.”

It happened that a friend and country-woman at our hotel was taken ill with typhoid fever, and amid the anxieties of her sick room the incipient love-affair was almost forgotten.  I no longer spent the evenings in the parlor.  One day Miss St. Clair showed me a tiny satin bag beautifully embroidered, with a soft silken chain to pass around the neck.  “What can it be for?” she asked.

“Why, Helen, it is an amulet.  Where did you get it?”

“The count gave it to me.  He had the loveliest set of Byzantine mosaics and pearls which he wished to give me; and when I would not accept them he seemed so hurt that I did not like to refuse this trifle.  What do you suppose is in it.”

“A relic of some saint, without doubt.  He thinks it will protect you from fever perhaps.”