In the coliseum the invalid seemed to enjoy returning vigor as he looked down from the upper halls and viewed the triumphal arches of Constantine, Septimus, Severus and Titus, now crumbling into decay, the lofty corridors left to the mercy of the elements, the endless porches grass grown and unprotected from the wild beast, the mouldering parapet, taught the one inspiring theme--mortality.

This ruin of ruins--what can it not recall to a vivid imagination?
The thousands who lined those seats in eager gaze upon the arena with its bloody and heart-sickening conflicts, its array of blood-thirsty antagonists, its dying groans, its weltering victims.
Where are they?
What remains?
Awful solitude, awful grandeur, awful beauty, desolation.

Peace, the emblem of Christianity, now reigns in the ancient stronghold of barbaric passion, butchery and strife.

Lady Rosamond had visited ruins of palaces, castles, bridges, arches, cathedrals, monuments and countless relics of the past, but none had the power to chain her thoughts as the stupendous coliseum, viewed in the solemn stillness of a moonlight night.

The present was a beautiful dream.