She looked at him gravely, with a slow expression of disgust. ‘I suppose you think I’m horrider than ever now?’ ‘Yes, said Marcia; ‘I do.’ ‘Then don’t make any such absurd statement as that you think bloodshed picturesque. The world’s got beyond that. Do you object if I smoke? I don’t think it would hurt this place to have a bit of fumigating.’ She nodded permission, and watched him silently as he rolled a cigarette and hunted through his pockets for a match. The coat did not reward his search, and he commenced on the waistcoat. Suddenly she broke out with— ‘What’s that in your pocket, Mr. Sybert?’ A momentary shade of annoyance flashed over his face. ‘It’s a dynamite bomb.’ ‘It’s a revolver! What are you carrying that for? It’s against the law.’ ‘Don’t tell the police’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve always liked to play with fire-arms; it’s a habit I’ve never outgrown.’ ‘Why are you carrying it?’ she repeated. Sybert found his match and lighted his cigarette with slow deliberation. Then he rose to his feet and looked down at her. ‘You ask too many questions, Miss Marcia,’ he said, and he commenced pacing back and forth the length of the dirt floor. She remained with her elbow resting on her knee and her chin in her hand, looking out at the storm. Presently he came back and sat down again. ‘Is our amnesty off?’ he asked. Before she could open her mouth to respond a fierce white flash of lightning came, followed instantly by a deafening crash of thunder. A torrent of water came pouring down on the loose tiles with a roar that sounded like a cannonading. The air seemed quivering with electricity. The horses plunged and snorted in terror, and Sybert sprang to his feet to quiet them. ‘Jove! It _is_ a cloudburst,’ he cried. Marcia ran to the open doorway and stood looking out across the storm-swept valley. The water was coming down in an almost solid sheet; the clouds hung low and black and impenetrable except when a jagged line of lightning cut them in two. From the height across the valley the tall square monastery tower rose defiantly into the very midst of the storm, while the cypress trees at its base swayed and writhed and wrung their hands in agony. Sybert came and stood beside her, and the two watched the storm in silence. ‘There,’ he suddenly flashed out, with a little undertone of triumph in his voice—‘there is Italy!’ He nodded toward the old walls rising so stanchly from the storm. ‘That’s the way the Italians have weathered tyranny and revolution and oppression for centuries, and that’s the way they will keep on doing.’ She looked up at him quickly, and caught a gleam of something she had never seen before in his face. It was as if an internal fire were blazing through. For an imperceptible second he held her look, then his eyelids drooped again and his usual expression of reserve came back. ‘Come and sit down,’ he said; ‘you’re getting wet.’