CHAPTER X.

What Beppo Found.

MRS. BERNARD and her friends were by no means the only persons who visited the Coliseum on that lovely moonlight night. A considerable number of people were gathered in the arena. Amongst them was the stranger with whom Paul had talked in the Protestant Cemetery. He was feeling impatient of the crowd, and the noise and stir they made, as he walked along one of the deserted corridors with his great dog at his heels. He wanted to feel the poetry and sublimity of the huge historic ruin, and the careless voices and idle laughter jarred on his ear.

He stood in the shadow of one of the arches, and looked across the wide circle. A party of ladies had halted at a little distance from him and were looking up at the tiers of arches. They stood in the bright moonlight, but he had not heeded them, till one of them spoke, and at the sound of her voice his heart seemed to stand still. He turned quickly. There she stood, within a few yards of him—his wife! She was beautifully dressed as usual. The pale blue cloak with silver clasps, the large black hat with drooping plumes, became her exquisitely. For a moment he thought her unchanged; but as he looked more closely, it seemed to him that she had grown thinner, and there was a sad, weary look on the face, the delicate profile of which he could see so clearly as she gazed upwards at the mighty walls.

"Yes, it is beautiful, very beautiful," she admitted; "but all these people destroy the romance of it. One needs stillness and solitude to get properly awed and thrilled by such a scene."

"Well, you've seen it by moonlight, anyway," said a voice, unmistakably American, "and I guess that's the main thing. You can imagine the romance when you get home."

"Is it true, Mrs. Bernard, that you leave Rome this week?" asked another of the party.

"Yes, I am sorry to say that I leave on Saturday," she replied; "but I am going to spend the summer in Italy, and shall perhaps return to Rome in the autumn."

"The summer in Italy!" repeated her friend. "That is unusual, and you will find it rather dull, I should think. But, of course, you will not be alone?"

"No, I shall not be alone," she said; "I shall have my boy with me."

"Yes; but a child is all very well, and we know that you are a devoted mother, yet you ought to have another companion."

"I do not think so," replied Mrs. Bernard; "my boy is a great deal to me. I shall not soon weary of his company."

And the unseen observer, watching her so closely, saw her lips quiver as she spoke, and a shadow, as if of pain, pass over her face. The ladies moved on, and he followed them slowly, keeping in the gloom. They did not linger much longer. He saw them get into the carriages, which awaited them at the entrance. Then they drove off, and he, too, moved away.

He took the road leading to the Arch of Titus, and passing beneath it went on past the old Forum, lying still and beautiful in the moonlight. In the perfect quiet that reigned in that spot, he began talking to his dog, as he was wont to do.

"I could not take the boy from her, could I, Beppo? It would break her heart. Did you see how she looked when she spoke of him? What is her husband to her in comparison? Well, she is happier than I am, for she has him. And she is a devoted mother. Poor little Paul! he is not to be congratulated on his father. Yet he desires to see him; he prays God to send him. Can it be that I have been brought here in answer to his prayer? Yet what can I do to bring about a reconciliation? I dare not approach her. I have no reason to suppose that her feelings towards me have changed. What can I do, Beppo? Can you tell me?"

Beppo was looking up into his master's face with his great wise eyes. When Mr. Bernard ceased speaking, the dog thrust its black muzzle into his hand with a low whine which said—if it said anything—"Wait!"

Turning along one by-lane after another, he came into the Piazza Venezia, and from there made his way into the Corso. He was walking briskly forward, when Beppo suddenly left his side, and bounding across an open space to the right disappeared beneath the portico of an old church. Presently he reappeared, barking vigorously and bounding against his master, seemed anxious to direct his attention to the spot he had quitted. Mr. Bernard was tired, and little disposed to go out of his way.

"Nonsense, Beppo, it's nothing," he said; "or if it is, I really cannot stay to look at either a beggar or a stray cat. Come along."

But Beppo would not come. He rushed back to the church, and his loud, ringing barks began to attract the attention of every one in the street. Much annoyed, Mr. Bernard went after the dog.

"What have you found now?" he asked.

Beppo was crouching over something that lay in the dark corner of the portico. Bending down, Mr. Bernard could dimly see the form of a little child, apparently asleep. He lit a match to enable him to see more clearly, and to his unutterable amazement, the light revealed the face of his own child.

What did it mean? How had he come there? Had there been foul play? A hundred questions presented themselves, as with tremulous tenderness he lifted the child into his arms and examined him carefully.

Paul opened his eyes for a moment as he was moved; but they closed again, and his head fell drowsily on his father's shoulder. But he was sound in body and limb, and with a feeling of relief his father carried him into the street, and hailing the first empty carriage, was driven with the child in his arms to the house where he was staying, which happily was close by.

How thankful he was that he had established himself in quiet rooms, and not at a large hotel! There was no one but his faithful servant, who looked after his comfort as well as any woman could, to receive him as he entered with the child.

"Has he had a fall, sir? No?" With the seriousness of a medical man, James felt the child's pulse and laid his hand on his brow. "It seems to me like a case of fever, sir," he then remarked in the calmest manner, for he was a man who never suffered himself to be perturbed whatever happened.

"I think so, too," said his master. "You must fetch a doctor at once, James; and, stay, you must also carry a note to the child's mother at the Hotel Londra."

"If his mother is at the hotel, sir, wouldn't it be better to take him there?" the servant ventured to suggest.

"No," Mr. Bernard replied sharply; "he shall stay here."

It took him but a minute to write a few words on a piece of paper and direct them to Mrs. Bernard. James went off with it at once; and Paul's father, with awkward yet tender hands, proceeded to undress the child and lay him in his own bed.