They stood for a long time on the little balcony, hand in hand, facing the shadows of the ilex grove; but the shadows no longer seemed black, because of the light in their own souls. He talked to her of his past—frankly, freely—and of Italy, his adopted land. He told her what he had tried to do and wherein he had failed. And as she listened, many things that had puzzled her, that had seemed enigmas in his character, assumed their right relations. The dark glass that had half hidden his motives, that had contorted his actions, suddenly cleared before her eyes. She saw the inherent sweetness and strength of his nature beneath his reserve, his apparent indifference. And as he told the story of Italy, of the sacrifices and valour and singleness of purpose that had gone to the making of the nation, there crept involuntarily a triumphant ring into his voice. The note of despondency that had dominated him for the past few months disappeared; for, as he dwelt upon the positive things that had been accomplished, they seemed to take shape and stand out clearly against the dimmer background of unaccomplished hopes. The remembrance of the nation’s smaller mistakes and faults and crimes had vanished in the larger view. The story that he had to tell was the story of a great people and a great land. There had been patriots in the past; there would be patriots in the future. The same strength that had made the nation would build it up and carry it on. * * * * * ‘Ah, Sybert! Miss Marcia!’ Melville’s voice rang through the house. ‘I’d forgotten there was any one in the world but us,’ Marcia whispered as they turned back into the hall. ‘Here’s a young gentleman calling for you, Miss Marcia.’ Melville’s hand rested on the shoulder of a barefooted little figure covered with the white dust of the Roman road. ‘Gervasio!’ Marcia cried, with a quick spasm of self-reproach. She had forgotten him. The boy drew himself up proudly and pointed through the open door to the soldiers pacing the length of the terrace. ‘_Ecco!_ signorina. _I soldati!_’ Marcia dropped on her knees beside him with a little laugh. ‘You darling!’ she cried as she gathered him into her arms and kissed him. Sybert bent over him and shook his hand. ‘You’re a brave boy, Gervasio,’ he said; ‘and you’ve probably saved our lives to-night.’ ‘Am I going to live with you now,’ he asked, ‘like Gerald?’ ‘Always,’ said Marcia, ‘just like Gerald.’ He opened his eyes wide. ‘And will I be an Americano then?’