One afternoon towards the end of February they were standing by the balustrade of the Pincio watching the sunset. The sky was a gorgeous riot of crimson and gold, across which were flung like flaunting royal pennants, long streamers of dark purple clouds. The very air was luminous and golden, and the bells ringing for vespers in the amethyst and grey city below, filled the ear with triumphant clangour. The carriages were leaving the drive and rolled by silently under the grey-green ilexes, the noise of the horses and of the wheels drowned by the ringing of the bells. Ragna stood in ecstasy, her hands tightly clasped, looking out over the sea of roofs and towers to where the great Dome rose bubble-like, silhouetted against the glowing sky. Her face was flushed, her eyes shining, her parted lips quivered. Mirko watching her said to himself: "She is ready." She gave a sigh of deep enjoyment and murmured, "It is like what one would imagine Heaven to be!" Mirko echoed her sigh; she turned and her eyes met his and there was that in his glance, which caused her to lower her eyes and her heart to beat suddenly quicker. "It is like Paradise," he said, "but the essential is lacking; it is like a beautiful woman without a soul." Ragna made no answer and he continued dreamily as though thinking aloud: "All is perfect--the stage is ready for the players--the outward semblance is awaiting the soul to animate it." He paused again, but the girl still remained silent. Presently he addressed her directly: "I told you I would unveil to you the spirit of Italy, I have done my part--the rest lies with you." "I do not understand what you mean," she answered. "I think you have opened my eyes--what is there still to learn?" "I have shown you the form, the outward shape, but you have not yet penetrated the spirit," he said, and his voice had the softness of a caress. "You have not guessed what is the real soul of Italy--that which makes her, though in ruins, the Soul of the World?" "And that 'soul' is--?" she asked in a voice so faint he could hardly catch it. "Love," he said, and taking her unresisting hand pressed it. "Love," he repeated presently, and his musical voice aroused all the echoes in her heart. "Italy is love, and love is the spirit of Italy. That is why lovers come here; there is love magic in the air, and those who are destined to love cannot escape it. You," he said, looking into her eyes, "you were born to love and be loved, do you not feel that it is so?" A deep blush crept over Ragna's cheeks, she drew her hand from his. "Hush, this is folly. You must not talk to me like that!" Now that he had spoken she wished that he had not, yet she knew now that for days past she had been waiting for him to say just this. She felt at the same time guiltily conscious of her delight that he should speak to her in this way and terrified lest he should continue.