They were so absorbed in their conversation, that the guide found no way of attracting their attention; in vain did he hem and haw, and scrape his foot on the gravel.
"They are most certainly a 'viaggio di nozze,'" he thought, "or perhaps 'fidanzati'—as such they will be generous."
Finally, as they came to the entrance to the ruins, he stepped before them with a commanding gesture.
"This, Signori, is the gallery where the Empress sat with her ladies. You see it overlooks the street where the chariots passed up to the palace. The palace itself was built out over the way, and the people went under it as under a bridge."
"See," said Mirko, "can you not imagine it,—the beautiful gallery, with its marble balustrade, hung with woven carpets and silken draperies—there before you in the sunlight? Do you not see the Empress, beautiful, stately, robed in purple, gems and gold-dust in her dark hair, wonderful jewels on her neck and arms? There are the ladies,—the proud dark one just behind her, the fair girl leaning over the balustrade at her side, with the gold of the sun on her hair, on her white dress, and the other three, laughing together, over there to the left? The slave-girls are holding peacock-feather fans to shield their royal mistress, and the slave-boys, beautiful, fair-haired captives, have brought baskets of fruit and sweets. And down in the street below, what a crowd, what a riot of colour! The Cæsar on his white horse with the gold trappings—do you catch the gleam of his burnished helmet, of his cuirass? He turns his head haughtily, and gathers up the reins in his hand; his short sword clatters against his thigh as his horse moves on. There, just behind him, comes the centurion of his escort, brave to see in his flaunting scarlet cloak, and the legionaries follow, like so many animated bronze statues. See—the fair waiting-maid by the Empress has dropped a rose to the centurion—he looks up and smiles—his teeth flash white—the slaves, carrying jars and baskets on their heads, have flattened themselves against the walls, to let the procession go by,—it moves like a glittering snake up the narrow way.—Hark! the salute of the palace guard, spear rattling on shield, and the shout 'Ave Cæsar!' It echoes under the vaulted way—and all Rome is in that cry!"
Mirko was flushed with enthusiasm; he threw back his head, and the clear-cut features of his classic face glowed, his dark eyes flashed, he seemed the very incarnation of that "lust of the eye and pride of life," of that "grandeur that was Rome."
As he spoke, Ragna saw the pageant of those far off days unrolled before her. She felt the throbbing of all the passionate life of old, where but a few minutes before there had been but moss-grown stone and crumbling ruins. He had laid a spell on her; she was for the moment, by virtue of his imagination, and its dramatic expression, actually living in the past, feeling its reality.
And so it continued throughout the morning. In the long paved underground passage way, Mirko showed her Cæsar, carried along in his litter, returning from his theatre. She saw the flickering light of the torches, heard the sandalled footsteps of the slaves,—their heavy breathing, the creak of the poles. And at the foot of the stairs she saw the sudden confusion,—the dark-cloaked assassins stealing from the shadow, she heard the shrieks, the cries of "Treason!" "Murder!" She saw in glimpses between the surging figures, the white-faced Emperor, struggling from his litter,—his unwieldy form leapt upon, borne back and down, then blows,—a gurgling groan. She saw the overturned litter, the crumpled body on the floor, the widening pool of blood,—then flight to the long flare of torches snatched from the trembling slaves, then darkness, and the alarm.
She saw the gay crowds, trooping into the Circus Maximus, the arrival in procession of Cæsar, æditor of the games. She watched breathless the speeding chariots, and carried out of herself, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes, joined in the thunderous applause which acclaimed the victor,—the hoarse roar which must, it seemed, shake the very foundations of Rome.
When it was all over, and the guide had beamingly pocketed his mancia and they were in the street again, Ragna drew a long breath.