Two nights afterwards some of those who had been dining at the table-d'hote went out into the Piazza di Spagna. There was an eclipse, or something which gave them the excuse for coming into the solemn and wonderful darkness, lit by tremulous stars, and musical with the constant cool splash of the fountain. Carriages were flying backwards and forwards, people lounging about, but they did not interfere much with the beauty or the quiet. The group of friends broke into little knots, two stood a little way up the Spanish steps, and leaned against the parapet One of them, a man, was saying:-- "Do not be afraid. These disappointments may sadden, but they do not wreck our lives. You have given me memories to cherish for ever, although this is a good-bye we are saying; yes, good-bye, and God bless you, my dear. Susan and I are going off to-morrow; there is south Italy to see, it would never do for us, you know, to go home and to have nothing to report of Vesuvius and Pompeii." She was crying softly, she felt the kind pressure of his hand, she did not know that he had moved away because another figure was running up the steps. "Phillis!" said Jack in a low voice. And then she turned and laid her head upon his shoulder. "Oh, it is hard, hard!" she said. "Jack, must there always be pain with one's deepest happiness!" He did not quite understand, but perhaps he guessed enough, and he was very gentle with her. For indeed it seemed as if the joy of their life had come to them through death and sorrow of heart. Is it not so often? Will it not be so to the very end? Presently he began to talk about the baby; the mother had been found the very day of the flood, and had walked and run all the way into Rome, almost mad with the bliss of the tidings. And Jack had been out to the spot where the little farm had stood, and had seen all the desolation and ruin, and was going to make his thank-offering and Phillis's, take the form of a new building. Over the door there would be carved the figure of a dog, with a date. Before this was done there were two weddings in Rome. Bice and young Count Moroni were married first, and two or three days after, Phillis Grey and John Ibbetson. It was one of those bright Easter days when Rome breaks into delicious harmonies of spring; when the banksia roses fling themselves over the walls like foam, and delicate plants spring out of the mighty brickwork, and the sky is one unbroken depth of blue, and the sun shines on the fountain of Trevi, on the falling waters which came rushing out, on the pigeons which fly backwards and forwards, and perch themselves on Neptune's head. The wedding was very quiet. Scarcely half a dozen people were in the Church, and in an hour or two Jack and Phillis were to start for Florence on their way to Venice. But before this Phillis had a wish which naturally was to be gratified. They must drive to the Ponte Molle and see the spot where Cartouche had died for his master.