Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace; Tibur I shall not see;—but something better I shall see. Twice I have tried before, and failed in getting the horses; Twice I have tried and failed: this time it shall not be a failure.’ But, of course, he does not reach Florence till the heroine and her family are gone; and he hunts after them through North Italy, not very skilfully, and then he returns to Rome; and he reflects, certainly not in a very dignified or heroic manner: ‘I cannot stay at Florence, not even to wait for a letter. Galleries only oppress me. Remembrance of hope I had cherished (Almost more than as hope, when I passed through Florence the first time) Lies like a sword in my soul. I am more a coward than ever, Chicken-hearted, past thought. The _cafés_ and waiters distress me. All is unkind, and, alas! I am ready for any one’s kindness. Oh, I knew it of old, and knew it, I thought, to perfection, If there is any one thing in the world to preclude all kindness, It is the need of it,—it is this sad, self-defeating dependence. Why is this, Eustace? Myself, were I stronger, I think I could tell you. But it is odd when it comes. So plumb I the deeps of depression, Daily in deeper, and find no support, no will, no purpose. All my old strengths are gone. And yet I shall have to do something. Ah, the key of our life, that passes all wards, opens all locks, Is not _I will_, but _I must_. I must,—I must,—and I do it. ‘After all, do I know that I really cared so about her? Do whatever I will, I cannot call up her image; For when I close my eyes, I see, very likely, St. Peter’s, Or the Pantheon façade, or Michael Angelo’s figures, Or, at a wish, when I please, the Alban hills and the Forum,— But that face, those eyes,—ah no, never anything like them; Only, try as I will, a sort of featureless outline, And a pale blank orb, which no recollection will add to. After all, perhaps there was something factitious about it; I have had pain, it is true: I have wept, and so have the actors.