leave Rome that night on foot.  He walked fast through the new streets in the upper quarter, turned to the right when he reached the Via Venti Settembre, and went straight on, past the top of the hill, and along the Quirinal Palace; then down and on, down and on, through moonlight and shadow, winding streets and straight, till the Colosseum was in sight.  He was going towards the Porta San Sebastiano to take the road to Ardea.

The air was very clear, and the moonlight made the broad space as bright as if there were daylight.  Regina walked fast, and began to overtake her father, and the dog turned his head and growled at the tall woman in black.  She came up with Ercole by the ruin of the ancient fountain, and the dog snarled at her.  Ercole stopped and looked at her sharply, and she raised her veil.

“I have followed you,” she said.  “We are alone here.  We can talk in peace.”

“And what am I to say to you?” Ercole asked, in a low and surly voice.

“What you will, little or much, as you please.  You shall speak, and I will listen.  But we can walk on under the trees there.  Then nobody can see us.”

Ercole began to go on, and Regina walked on his left side.  The dog sniffed at the hem of her long black cloak.  They came under the shade of the trees, and Ercole stopped again, and turned, facing the reflection of the moonlight on the vast curve of the Colosseum.

“What do you want of me?” he asked.  “Why do you follow me in the night?”

“When you saw that the Signore was with me to-day, you said, ’It cannot be done.’  He is not here now.”

She stood quite still, looking at him.

“I understand nothing,” he said, in the same surly tone as before.

“You wished to kill me to-day,” she answered.  “I am here.  This is a good place.”

Ercole looked about him instinctively, peering into the shadows under the trees.

“There is no one,” Regina said.  “This is a good place.”

She had not lifted her veil, but she threw back the collar of her cloak, and with quick fingers undid the fastenings of her dress, opening it wide.  Rays of moonlight fell through the trees upon her bosom, and it gleamed like fine ivory newly cut.

“I wait,” she said.

She stood motionless before him, expecting the knife, but her father’s hands did not move.  His eyes were fixed on hers, though he could not see them through the veil.

“So he has left you?” he said slowly.

“No.  I am waiting.”

Not a fold of her cloak stirred as she stood there to die.  It seemed a long time, but his hands did not move.  Then he heard the sound of her voice, very low and sweet, repeating a little prayer, but he only heard the last words distinctly.

“—­now, and in the hour of our death!”

His right hand moved slowly and found something in his pocket, and then there was the sharp click of a strong spring, and a ray of moonlight fell upon steel, and her voice was heard again.