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ARIADNE. 167never touched Maryx once in aU the five-andtwentyyears which had passed since he had firststood by the white lions hi the portico of VillaMedicia,had taken hold onhimhithisunhealthyand burning summer.Isuppose the fever comes up from the soil; —our marveUous soU that, hke the water of oursprings and fountains,never changes takeit awa}'or shut it up as you may, and bears such lovelyluxuriance of leaf and blossoms; — because theearthhere has all been so scorched through andthrough with blood,and every handsbreadth ofits space is as it were a sepulchre,and the lushgrass, and the violets that are sweeter here thanever they are elsewhere, and all the deliciousmoist hanging mosses and herbs and ferns are,after aU, so rich,because born from the bodies ofvirgins and martyrs, and heroes, and all thenameless mUhons that he buried here.Blood must have soaked through the — soildeeper than any tree can plunge its roots: tenthousand animals woidd be slaughtered in thecircus in a clay, not to speak of men: — however,come whenceit may,the fever, that evenHorace