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24 ARIADNE.The road curvesto the left, as everyone knows,and goes tothe baths of the poor madman, Caracalla;and there are shapeless mounds of brickand stoneand rubble everywhereamongst the turfand the tilled soil, and you know that they wereall sacred one day,and beautiful,with domes andporticoes, andcolumns andhighspringingarches,and thronging multitudes worshipping in them,and the smoke of sacrifice ascending, and thegreat statues standing with serene faces immutableand calm amidst the uproar of emotion andof prayer.The night was still and luminous; a nulHonstars were shining in the violet blue above;allwas quiet, with only the sound of hooting owlsthat flew from the looming mass of the Flaviantheatre behind mein the dark.Ithought of thebroad burning noons, of the gathered people, ofthe knife of the priest, of the fall of the ox,ofthe fountain of blood, of the frenzy of death, ofthe worship of Attis, of all that came with theaccursed eastern races to rum Rome with itslusts. iIthought and shuddered and went on and