and had realised to the height of soul-intoxication the subtle charm of her delicate beauty, and the sweetness of her disposition.  But—­(there was a but in it,—­there always is!) he was not sure of her constancy.  The duel between the Marquis Fontenelle and the actor Miraudin had furnished food for gossip at all the social gatherings in Rome, and Sylvie’s name, freely mentioned as the cause of the dispute, had been thus given an unpleasant notoriety.  And though Aubrey Leigh was far too chivalrous and noble-natured to judge and condemn a woman without seeking for the truth from her own lips, he was indescribably annoyed to hear her spoken of in any connection with the late Marquis.  He had a strong desire to ask Angela Sovrani a few questions concerning the affair, but hesitated, lest his keen personal anxiety should betray the depth of his feelings.  Then, too, he was troubled by the fact that the Hermenstein family had been from time immemorial devout Romanists, and he felt that Sylvie must perforce be a firm adherent to that faith.

“Better to leave Rome!” he said to himself, “Better to shake off the witchery of her presence, and get back to England and to work.  And if I cannot kill or quell this love in me, at any rate it shall serve me to good purpose,—­it shall make me a better and a braver man!”

He had promised to meet the Princesse D’Agramont that morning at the Catacombs of St. Callistus, to see the illumination of the tomb of St. Cecilia, which takes place there annually on the Saint’s Feast-Day, and he knew that Angela Sovrani and the Comtesse Hermenstein were to be of the Princesse’s party.  He was somewhat late in starting, and hired a fiacre to drive him along the Via Appia to his destination, but when he arrived there Mass had already commenced.  A Trappist monk, tall and grim and forbidding of aspect, met him at the entrance to the Catacombs with a lighted taper, and escorted him in silence through the gloomy “Oratorium” and passage of tombs,—­the torch he carried flinging ghastly reflections on the mural paintings and inscriptions, till, on reaching the tomb of St. Cecilia where the murdered saint once lay, though her remains are now enshrined in the Church of St. Cecilia in Trastevere, the Trappist suddenly left him at a corner to attend to other incoming visitors, and disappeared.  Aubrey looked around him, vaguely touched and awed by the solemnity of the scene;—­the damp walls on which old Byzantine paintings of the seventh century were still visible, though crumbling fast away,—­the glimmering lights,—­the little crowd of people pressed together,—­the brilliantly illuminated altar,—­the droning accents of the officiating priests;—­and presently the sound of a boy’s exquisite young voice rose high and pure, singing the Agnus Dei.  St. Cecilia herself might have been enraptured by such sweet harmony,—­and Aubrey Leigh instinctively bent his head, moved strongly by the holy and tender fervour of the anthem.  Growing accustomed to