Irene left the Cathedral in great moral perturbation. So great was her excitement that she forgot to take a cab, and walked all the long way home, in the face of a cutting east wind that she did not even notice. Large tears ran down her face, she talked to herself, gesticulated, and drew the attention of all passers-by. The pagan soul that had passed Christianity by was sobbing and storming within her. For one moment, under the influence of the very ceremonies she was execrating, she had understood how priceless was the treasure she had lost. Life might have been beautiful and full of harmony, whereas, on the path she had chosen, there was nothing but constant, needless, helpless suffering. Someone should have taught her Christianity! Her soul had been confided to someone’s care, and that someone had not fulfilled his sacred duty! And Irene, in her despair, cursed all lazy and idle slaves, for a voice in her soul told her that her fate was sealed, and that it was too late to try and change it. XVIII The following morning Irene awoke feeling depressed and miserable. She was afraid to remain alone with her own thoughts, and wrote to Gzhatski, asking him to come and take her for a drive on the Appian Way. It was Good Friday, and Gzhatski was just on the point of leaving his hotel to go to the Russian Church, when Irene’s letter was handed to him. He guessed from the tone of her words that something unusual was the matter with his friend, and, without hesitating, he immediately drove off to fetch her. Asking no questions, and pretending not to notice her tear-stained eyes and trembling lips, he sat quietly beside her, as the cab rolled past the Colosseum and the Baths of Caracalla, to the Porta San Sebastiano. It was a grey, dull morning. The yellow, thick, Roman dust had been laid by the recent rain, the wind had fallen, and not a leaf stirred on the trees. On either side of the Via Appia Antica rose high stone walls, obstructing the view over the Campagna. At last, however, they passed the tomb of Cecilia Metella, and drove out into the open country. Before them stretched the narrow ancient road, in places still paved with flat stones, in the ancient fashion. This road, straight as an arrow, stretches all the way to Albano, making no zig-zags even when climbing up-hill. It is a road that could only have been made by children, or by ancient Romans! On either side of the way stand monuments of the most varied forms, round, cone-shaped, pyramidal, and other varieties, difficult to name or describe. Some of them still boast bas-reliefs and inscriptions, and here and there fallen statues, armless or headless, peep out between the bushes. Occasionally, too, some stray monument is surrounded by a frame of tall cypresses and Roman pines, but in general, there is not much greenery, except the tall, fresh grass, full of mauve and yellow field-flowers, and scarlet poppies. In the far