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CHAPTER XVII.The summer went on; the nightingales ofMaryx sang on under the rose thickets, and theglossy leaves of the laurels;the rank grass grewon his grave, and it was marked by one vastrough block of white marble, as though to say,thatnohand after his dared carve the rocks ; hismother, blind and in dotage, sat and told herwooden beads, and smiled and said always:" Dead ! Nay, nay; God weretoogood for that."Rome was empty and silent as the grave, andonly the hot winds wereleft to wander,unquiet,through the deserted streets.And she — my Ariadne,— was dying slowly asthe summer died." Youhave killed her!" Ihad said to Giuhothatnight.