aches of which the sun now casts bright rays. Some ornaments of stucco
and fragments of mosaic-work are yet to be seen. Still the spot remains
mournful and desolate, well fitted for tragic horror. The old soldier's
voice had become graver as he related how Caligula, on returning from the
Palatine games, had been minded to descend all alone into this gallery to
witness certain sacred dances which some youths from Asia were practising
there. And then it was that the gloom gave Cassius Chaereas, the chief of
the conspirators, an opportunity to deal him the first thrust in the
abdomen. Howling with pain, the emperor sought to flee; but the
assassins, his creatures, his dearest friends, rushed upon him, threw him
down, and dealt him blow after blow, whilst he, mad with rage and fright,
filled the dim, deaf gallery with the howling of a slaughtered beast.
When he had expired, silence fell once more, and the frightened murderers
fled.

The classical visit to the Palatine was now over, and when Pierre came up
into the light again, he wished to rid himself of his guide and remain
alone in the pleasant, dreamy garden on the summit of the height. For
three hours he had been tramping about with the guide's voice buzzing in
his ears. The worthy man was now talking of his friendship for France and
relating the battle of Magenta in great detail. He smiled as he took the
piece of silver which Pierre offered him, and then started on the battle
of Solferino. Indeed, it seemed impossible to stop him, when fortunately
a lady came up to ask for some information. And, thereupon, he went off
with her. "Good-evening, Monsieur l'Abbe," he said; "you can go down by
way of Caligula's palace."

Delightful was Pierre's relief when he was at last able to rest for a
moment on one of the marble seats in the garden. There were but few
clumps of trees, cypresses, box-trees, palms, and some fine evergreen
oaks; but the latter, sheltering the seat, cast a dark shade of exquisite
freshness around. The charm of the spot was also largely due to its
dreamy solitude, to the low rustle which seemed to come from that ancient
soil saturated with resounding history. Here formerly had been the
pleasure grounds of the Villa Farnese which still exists though greatly
damaged, and the grace of the Renascence seems to linger here, its breath
passing caressingly through the shiny foliage of the old evergreen oaks.
You are, as it were, enveloped by the soul of the past, a