The Prince wore a broad-brimmed soft felt hat casting the upper part of his face into deep shadow, he had thrown round him an Italian military cloak, the folds of which flung up and over his left shoulder had the grace of a toga. He really looked not unlike the gallant brigand of romance.
"Oh, indeed!" he laughed, "and supposing I were to carry you off, far away across the Campagne to a castle in the hills and hold you for ransom, what then?"
"What ransom would you set on me?"
"A ransom no one could pay but yourself—a king's ransom: your love. And the day you give it you would be free to go—if you so wished." He spoke jestingly but his voice had a deep undertone that thrilled the girl.
"Would you pay the ransom, oh, captive?"
"Even a captive lady could not love to order," laughed Ragna.
"But could you not love a man, who for love of you carried you away from all the world and made you his by force? I think you would—every woman is really a Sabine at heart!"
Ragna was spared the necessity of answering by the carriage drawing up at the entrance to the Colosseum.
"Shall we keep him?" asked Mirko, as he helped her to alight.
"No! no. Let us walk back."