"She is ready."

She gave a sigh of deep enjoyment and murmured, "It is like what one would imagine Heaven to be!" Mirko echoed her sigh; she turned and her eyes met his and there was that in his glance, which caused her to lower her eyes and her heart to beat suddenly quicker.

"It is like Paradise," he said, "but the essential is lacking; it is like a beautiful woman without a soul."

Ragna made no answer and he continued dreamily as though thinking aloud:

"All is perfect--the stage is ready for the players--the outward semblance is awaiting the soul to animate it."

He paused again, but the girl still remained silent. Presently he addressed her directly:

"I told you I would unveil to you the spirit of Italy, I have done my part--the rest lies with you."

"I do not understand what you mean," she answered. "I think you have opened my eyes--what is there still to learn?"

"I have shown you the form, the outward shape, but you have not yet penetrated the spirit," he said, and his voice had the softness of a caress. "You have not guessed what is the real soul of Italy--that which makes her, though in ruins, the Soul of the World?"

"And that 'soul' is--?" she asked in a voice so faint he could hardly catch it.

"Love," he said, and taking her unresisting hand pressed it.

"Love," he repeated presently, and his musical voice aroused all the echoes in her heart. "Italy is love, and love is the spirit of Italy.

That is why lovers come here; there is love magic in the air, and those who are destined to love cannot escape it. You," he said, looking into her eyes, "you were born to love and be loved, do you not feel that it is so?"

A deep blush crept over Ragna's cheeks, she drew her hand from his.

"Hush, this is folly. You must not talk to me like that!"

Now that he had spoken she wished that he had not, yet she knew now that for days past she had been waiting for him to say just this. She felt at the same time guiltily conscious of her delight that he should speak to her in this way and terrified lest he should continue.

"Ah," said Mirko, "why should you fear the awakening of your soul? A woman who has not loved, who does not love is a sweet instrument out of tune. Love brings you into harmony with the music of the Universe. Do you not want to learn all that life has to teach? The Book of Love is here for you to open, you have but to stretch forth your hand."

Ragna stood listening fascinated. No one had ever talked to her like this. The recollection of her Norwegian suitors rose to her mind and she scorned them in her heart. Who of them all could have spoken like this?

This was fairyland, and the fairy Prince was at her side.

"Ragna," his voice caressed her, "Ragna, my Star of the North, tell me have you not felt it, the magic spell?"

She raised her eyes to his, and there pa.s.sed from him to her a magnetic current that seized and shook her innermost being. It frightened her; with an effort she turned her eyes away and the spell was broken. She pa.s.sed her hands to her heart, then stretched them out before her as though to thrust him away.

"Oh, you must not!" she cried, "indeed you must not!"

"Have I said anything that could offend you? Surely not! I would die rather than offend you, dear little friend!"

The word rea.s.sured her and soothed her conscience; how could she explain that it was far more the look than the words?

"Perhaps you misunderstood me," he continued, "but I did not think you would, I thought we knew each other too well for that!" He spoke as though wounded by a misconstruction put upon his sincerity.

Ragna felt foolish.

"I shall try not to offend you again," he said presently, and very humbly, "but you must bear me good-will enough not to look for offence where none is intended."

The girl smiled at him by way of answer.

It was growing rapidly dark and a _guardia di pubblico sicurezza_ pa.s.sing by, eyed the isolated couple curiously, but also with the sympathy every Latin feels for a pair of lovers. The bells had long since ceased ringing and many lights twinkled in the city below. In the sky stood a fair large planet and Mirko drew Ragna's attention to it.

"Venus, the Star of Love," he said briefly, with no comment, but his voice emphasized the words.

Ragna turned and they walked to the Spanish Stairs. As they pa.s.sed the Trinita del Monte a voice came out to them, a soprano voice marvellously clear and vibrant, the pure high notes almost startling in their pa.s.sionate intensity.

"How beautiful!" said Ragna, and Mirko answered:

"But how sad! Think of a woman who can put that into her singing, eating her heart out in a cloister!"

As they descended the stairs Ragna looked up again at the white planet nearing the horizon, a whiter glow seemed to be overtaking the star, drowning it in a diffused effulgence.

"The moon is casting poor Venus in the shade."

"Ah, yes, she is wise to retire before the moon! Listen, Ragna, to-morrow the moon will be full,--you must give me the evening, we shall go to see the Colosseum by moonlight!"

"The evening? Oh, never! It would be impossible! It is bad enough for me to be out alone as late as this; Fru Bjork does not like it, I shall be scolded when I go in."

"You can manage it well enough, if you want to. Think of it! The Colosseum by moonlight--and there is no possible danger from malaria at this time of year."

"It would be lovely," she said wistfully, "but I don't see how I could--"

"Oh, easily! At dinner you say you have a headache and go to your room, and when all the people are in the drawing-room, you slip out quietly and I shall be waiting for you below."

"But how could I get in again?"

Mirko smiled at her simplicity.

"Tell the chambermaid you will give her a little present if she sits up for you."

"But will she?"

"As certainly as she is an Italian; she will love to think she is making the way easy for a pair of _innamorati_."

"Oh!" said Ragna.

"Of course," said Mirko, "we are not _innamorati_, we are friends,--but she would not understand the distinction," he smiled to himself, "and in any case how can it matter to you what she supposes?"

"I won't promise to come," declared Ragna; still the charm of such an escapade appealed to her romantic imagination--and after all, there was no real harm in it!

Mirko was satisfied and took advantage of the dusk to kiss her hand twice when he had put her in a "botte" in the Piazza di Spagna. The act had lost its significance to her since she had come to Italy and had seen how generally it was practised, but this evening the pressure of Mirko's lips sent a thrill through her fingers.

As she lay in her bed that night, Mirko's words: "I would rather die than offend you!" rang in her ears and she smiled happily.