“What a good thing you drove away that old parrot!” said the stranger. “These guides simply spoil Italy for foreigners. I am sure tourists would willingly pay a tax for their benefit, only to be rid of them, and to be allowed to admire Italy’s treasures in peace. I am always positively wild with rage when they begin to declaim, and to offer me elementary information that we all acquired years ago at school!” Irene listened sympathetically, and suddenly realized with astonishment that the stranger was addressing her in Russian. How could he have found out that she was Russian! The speaker noticed her surprise, and smiled. “I had the pleasure of seeing you in your _pension_,” he explained, “I went there to see Anna Sergeievna Boutourina.” “Oh! Do you know Anna Sergeievna? Isn’t she a charming old lady?” “Very charming. I have known her since my childhood; I used to go and stay with her as a little boy. Allow me to introduce myself: Sergei Gzhatski, Marshal of the Nobility in the province of S⸺.” They began to speak of S⸺, and discovered mutual acquaintances. But their conversation soon came to a stop. The magic beauty of the night threw its enchantment over them. They mounted the steps of the amphitheatre, sat down on the steps, and remained silent, in admiration of the glorious scene. Pale blue clouds were floating above them, from time to time veiling the moon. The high walls, with their immense openings, stood out like enormous lace patterns against the clear sky. Through the gaps in the blocks of stone peeped cypresses and Roman pines; high on the third floor, alternately appearing and disappearing, shone a moving light, a torch, in the hands of a guide, leading a crowd of English tourists through all the corridors and tiers of the Colosseum. Irene gazed fixedly at this wavering light, and suddenly her thoughts wandered back to ancient times, to the early years of Christianity. * * * * *