the grass, skurried away at the
barking of Famulus. The whole place was as quiet and unassuming as the
purlieus of a village church, but the walls had that singular luminous
glow which the buildings of Rome seem to give out at 'Titian's hour.'

Elena drew up beside him.

'That day--how long ago it seems now!' she said with a little tremor in
her voice.

In truth, the memory of it had already dropped away into the gulf of
time as if their love had endured for years. Elena's words raised that
illusion in Andrea's mind, but, at the same time, a certain uneasiness.
She began recalling the details of their visit to Santa Sabina one
afternoon in January under a prematurely mild sun. She dwelt insistently
upon the most trivial incidents, breaking off from time to time as if
following a separate train of thought, distinct from the words she
uttered. Andrea fancied he caught a note of regret in her voice. Yet,
what had she to regret? Surely their love had many a sweeter day before
it still--the Spring had come again to Rome. Doubting and perplexed, he
ceased to listen to her. The horses went on down the hill at a walk,
side by side, snorting noisily from time to time, and putting their
heads together, as if exchanging confidences. Famulus sped on before, or
bounded after them, perpetually on the gallop.

'Do you remember,' Elena went on, 'do you remember the Brother who came
to open the gates for us when we rang the bell?'

'Yes--yes.'

'And how perfectly aghast he looked when he saw who it was? He was such
a little, little red-faced man without any beard. When he went to get
the keys of the church, he left us alone in the vestibule--and you
kissed me--do you remember?'

'Yes.'

'And all those barrels in the vestibule! And the smell of wine while the
Brother was explaining the legends carved on the cypress-wood door. And
then about the Madonna of the Rosary--do you remember?--his explanation
made you laugh, and I could not help laughing too, and the poor man was
so put out, that he would not open his mouth again, not even to thank
you at the last--'

There was a little pause. Then she began again.

'And at Sant' Alexio, where you would not let me look at the cupola
through the keyhole. How we laughed then too!'

Renewed silence. Along the road towards them came a party of men
carrying a coffin, and followed by a hired conveyance full of tearful
relatives. They were on their way to the Jewish cemetery. It was a gri