The racing steeds were within ten yards of us. Calmly I cast my eye over their points. Far the fleetest, though he did not hold the lead, was Marmalada’s charger, the Atys gelding, by Celerima out of Sac de Nuit. With one wave of my arm I had placed her on his crupper, and, with the same action, swung myself into the saddle. Then, in a flash and thunder of flying horses, we swept like tawny lightning down the Pincian. The last words I heard from the club window, through the heliotrope-scented air, were “Thirty to one on Atys, half only if declared.” They were wagering on our lives; the slang of the paddock was on their lips. Onward, downward, we sped, the fair stranger lifeless in my arms. Past scarlet cardinals in mufti, past brilliant έτᾶιραὶ like those who swayed the City of the Violet Crown; past _pifferari_ dancing in front of many an _albergo_; through the Ghetto with its marmorine palaces, over the Fountain of Trevi, across the Cascine, down the streets of the Vatican we flew among yells of “Owner’s up,” “The gelding wins, hard held,” from the excited _bourgeoisie_. Heaven and earth swam before my eyes as we reached the Pons Sublicia, and heard the tawny waters of Tiber swaying to the sea. _The Pons Sublicia was up_! With an oath of despair, for life is sweet, I rammed my persuaders into Atys, caught him by the head, and sent him straight at the flooded Tiber! “_Va-t-en donc_, _espèce de type_!” said the girl on my saddle-bow, finding her tongue at last. Fear, or girlish modesty, had hitherto kept her silent. Then Atys rose on his fetlocks! Despite his double burden, the good steed meant to have it. He deemed, perchance, he was with the Quorn or the Baron’s. He rose; he sprang. The deep yellow water, cold in the moon’s rays, with the farthest bank but a chill grey line in the mist, lay beneath us! A moment that seemed an eternity! Then we landed on the far-off further bank, and for the first time I could take a pull at his head. I turned him on the river’s brim, and leaped him back again. The runaway was now as tame as a driven deer in Richmond Park. Well, Camarada, the adventure is over. She was grateful, of course. These _pervenche_ eyes were suffused with a dewy radiance. “You can’t call,” she said, “for you haven’t been introduced, and Mrs. Walker says we must be more exclusive. I’m dying to be exclusive; but I’m very much obliged to you, and so will mother be. Let’s see. I’ll be at the Colosseum to-morrow night, about ten. I’m bound to see the Colosseum, by moonlight. Good-bye;” and she shook her pale parasol at me, and fluttered away. Ah, Camarada, shall I be there? _Que scais-je_? Well, ’tis time to go to the dance at the Holy Father’s. Adieu, Carissima.—Tout à vous, CIS. III.