"My poor darling, you must get well for my sake. You must think of

nothing but getting well. Then we'll go away somewhere--to Switzerland,

as you said in your letter. Or perhaps to England, where you were born,

and where your father lived his years of exile. Dear old England!

Motherland of liberty! I'll show you all the places."

She was dizzy with the beautiful vision.

"Oh, if I could only go on like this for ever! But I mustn't listen to

you, dearest. It's no use, you know. Now, is it?"

The spirit which had exalted him for a moment took flight, and his heart

rose into his throat.

"Now, is it?" she repeated.

He did not answer, and she dropped back with a sigh. Ah, it was cruel

fencing. Every word was a sword, and it was cutting a hundred ways.

At that moment a band of music passed down the street. Roma, who loved

bands of music, asked Rossi to lift her up that she might look at it. A

little drummer boy was marching at the head of a procession, gaily

rolling his rataplan.

"He reminds me of little Joseph," she said, and she laughed heartily.

Strange mystery of life that robs death of all its terrors!

He put his arm about her to support her as they stood by the parapet,

and this brought a new tremor of affection, as well as a little of the

old physical thrill and a world of fond and tender memories. She looked

into his eyes, he looked into hers; they both looked across to Trinità

de' Monti, and in the eye-asking between them she said plainly, "Do you

remember--over there?"

Roma was assisted back to the bed-chair, and then, conversation being

impossible, Rossi began to read. Every day he had read something. Roma

had made the selections. They were always about the great

lovers--Francesca and Paolo, Dante and Beatrice, even Alfred de Musset

and poor John Keats, with the skull cap which burnt his brain. To-day it

was Roma's favourite poem: "Teach me, only teach, Love!

As I ought

I will speak thy speech, Love,

Think thy thought...."

His right hand held the book. His left was between Roma's hands, lying

blue-veined in her lap. She was looking out on the sunlit city as if

taking a last farewell of it. He stopped to stroke her glossy black hair

and she reached up to his lips and kissed them. Then she closed her eyes

to listen. His voice rose and swelled with the ocean of his love, and he

felt as if he were pouring his life into her frail body.




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