"See," said Mirko, "can you not imagine it,--the beautiful gallery, with its marble balustrade, hung with woven carpets and silken draperies--there before you in the sunlight? Do you not see the Empress, beautiful, stately, robed in purple, gems and gold-dust in her dark hair, wonderful jewels on her neck and arms? There are the ladies,--the proud dark one just behind her, the fair girl leaning over the balustrade at her side, with the gold of the sun on her hair, on her white dress, and the other three, laughing together, over there to the left? The slave-girls are holding peacock-feather fans to shield their royal mistress, and the slave-boys, beautiful, fair-haired captives, have brought baskets of fruit and sweets. And down in the street below, what a crowd, what a riot of colour! The Cæsar on his white horse with the gold trappings--do you catch the gleam of his burnished helmet, of his cuirass? He turns his head haughtily, and gathers up the reins in his hand; his short sword clatters against his thigh as his horse moves on. There, just behind him, comes the centurion of his escort, brave to see in his flaunting scarlet cloak, and the legionaries follow, like so many animated bronze statues. See--the fair waiting-maid by the Empress has dropped a rose to the centurion--he looks up and smiles--his teeth flash white--the slaves, carrying jars and baskets on their heads, have flattened themselves against the walls, to let the procession go by,--it moves like a glittering snake up the narrow way.--Hark! the salute of the palace guard, spear rattling on shield, and the shout 'Ave Cæsar!' It echoes under the vaulted way--and all Rome is in that cry!" Mirko was flushed with enthusiasm; he threw back his head, and the clear-cut features of his classic face glowed, his dark eyes flashed, he seemed the very incarnation of that "lust of the eye and pride of life," of that "grandeur that was Rome." As he spoke, Ragna saw the pageant of those far off days unrolled before her. She felt the throbbing of all the passionate life of old, where but a few minutes before there had been but moss-grown stone and crumbling ruins. He had laid a spell on her; she was for the moment, by virtue of his imagination, and its dramatic expression, actually living in the past, feeling its reality.