She repeated it lingeringly after him.
"From the North—you say—to do penance in Rome!"
She watched him with an expression of amusement. When he started back from her, a strange fear in his heart, a wave of her hand checked him.
"Let me whisper a secret to you!" she said with a smile.
He felt her perfumed breath upon his cheek.
Inclining his ear he staggered away from her dizzy, bewildered.
Presently, with a dazzling smile, she extended one white hand and Tristan, trembling as one under a spell, bent over and kissed it. He felt the soft pressure of her fingers and his pulse throbbed with a strange, insidious fire, as reluctantly he released it at last.
Raising his eyes, he now met her gaze, absorbing into his innermost soul the mesmeric spell of her beauty, drinking in the warmth of those dark, sleepy orbs that flashed on him half resentfully, half mockingly. Then the charioteer jerked up the reins, the chariot began to move. Like a dream the pageant vanished—and slowly, like far-away thunder, the voice of the multitudes began to return, as they regarded the lone pilgrim with mingled doubt, fear and disdain.
With a start Tristan looked about. He was as one bewitched. He felt he must follow her at all risks, ascertain her name, her abode.
Dashing through the crowds that gave way before him, wondering and commenting upon the unseemly haste of one wearing so austere a garb, Tristan caught a last glimpse of the procession as it entered the narrow gorge that lies between Mount Testaccio and Mount Aventine.