The herd of reechoing tourists had departed and most of the solemn places had relapsed into solemnity.

The sky was a blaze of blue, and the plash of the fountains in their mossy niches had lost its chill and doubled its music.

On the corners of the warm, bright streets one stumbled on bundles of flowers.
Our friends had gone one afternoon--it was the third of their stay--to look at the latest excavations in the Forum, these labours having been for some time previous largely extended.

They had descended from the modern street to the level of the Sacred Way, along which they wandered with a reverence of step which was not the same on the part of each.
Henrietta Stackpole was struck with the fact that ancient Rome had been paved a good deal like New York, and even found an analogy between the deep chariot-ruts traceable in the antique street and the overjangled iron grooves which express the intensity of American life.

The sun had begun to sink, the air was a golden haze, and the long shadows of broken column and vague pedestal leaned across the field of ruin.