Mirko dismissed the vetturino, who with much cracking of his whip, made his way to the nearest osteria there to drink the health of the mad forestieri who would risk any sort of "malanno" to see an old ruin by moonlight.
The moon rode high in the heavens and the great building stood out clear and sharp in the silvery light, the inky shadows seemed pregnant with mystery. Ragna almost looked to see the ghosts of martyrs in horrid procession, threading the gloomy archways. A shadow in the arena seemed a pool of blood. Above, in the tribunes, bloodthirsty multitudes had watched, breathless, the matchless show,—and well might the Vestal-virgins cover their faces, of what avail the fate deciding thumb when maidens and lions meet in the amphitheatre?
"Is it not wonderful?" asked Mirko.
"Wonderful, but horrible," said Ragna, "if ghosts walk anywhere on earth, surely they must walk here! Think of all these walls have looked down on!"
"Yes, the Games, the glorious Games!" he replied eagerly. "Oh, to have seen it in its pomp and pride! Think of it, Ragna,—the people, the colours in the sunlight, the purple velarium up there against the sky, the Cæsar, the Senate, the Vestals,—and the gladiators in the ring!"
"I was thinking of the martyrs," said Ragna.
"Oh, the martyrs! Poor fools! After all it was their own fault."
His slight sneer grated on the girl's mood.
"They were glorious," she said indignantly, "they had the courage of their convictions. They proved their strength,—they were stronger than Cæsar, stronger than Rome,—their death was their victory!"
Her eyes shone, and Mirko, looking at her face upturned in the moonlight, thought he had never seen her so beautiful, transfigured as she was, by her enthusiasm.