The years had passed over him lightly, though any close observer would have noted the slightly increased sternness discernible in the set of the mouth, the squaring of the lean jaw. The eyes were as kind as ever, the brow as calm, the hair had streaks of grey at the temples, but was no thinner than of old. On leaving the service, he had made a two years trip round the world, and had then, after a year, spent in the capitals of Europe, joined an exploring expedition to the heart of Africa. From thence he had returned to India, and while there, a sudden desire had seized him to revisit Italy, the land of his youthful dreams. Often during these years of voluntary exile had the face and form of Ragna risen before his eyes; she had left an indelible impression on him. He had been sincere when he said and wrote, "Now and always." His was a tenacious nature, both in hate and in love, and the circumstances attending his love for Ragna had been such as to brand that passion upon his soul, as a mark made upon soft clay is fixed forever by the firing in the kiln. His love for her and his indignation at the unworthiness of her betrayer had caused him to break all the threads of his life, had made of him a wanderer upon the face of the earth. True to his word, he had never seen Prince Mirko again, after that last interview in Rome, and if he sometimes thought wistfully of the earlier days of boyish comradeship, the brutal revelation of the real character of the man had effectually killed all but a somewhat sentimental cast of memory. He had been thoroughly and simply in earnest in the letter which he had written to Ragna on leaving Rome, and her answer had hurt him. He understood her however, too well, not to read between the lines of her answer, and to see in the apparently cold and self-sufficient note, the effort of a nature grievously wounded, striving to hide that wound, even from the hand of the physician. "She will understand in time, and will turn to me," he thought, and had been content to wait. As time went on and no word came from her, he placed her, as it were, in the inner sanctuary of heart and mind, apart from the daily interests of his life. She was not dethroned, he still awaited her summons,--it had become a habit of mind with him to believe that it would come--but he was unconsciously growing to consider the eventuality of that summons more in the light of a possibility than of a probability. This, until his visit to Rome. It seemed to him on his arrival there, that the old memories lay in wait for him in the streets, the old pain awoke in his heart, the old indignation burned in his veins. He knew himself for a lonely man, up-rooted from his own country, and the regret for what might have been, had Ragna but accepted his proposal, aroused in him a burning resentment against fate.