It was a fine night, the air heavy with the vernal scent of fertile
lands, and the deep cobalt of the heavens a glittering, star-flecked dome
in a lighter space of which floated the half-disk of the growing moon.
Such a moon, she bethought her, as she had looked at with thoughts of
him, the night after their brief meeting at Acquasparta. She had gained
that north rampart on which he had announced that duty took him, and
yonder she saw a man---the only tenant of the wall--leaning upon the
embattled parapet, looking down at the lights of Gian Maria's camp. He
was bareheaded, and by the gold coif that gleamed in his hair she knew
him. Softly she stole up behind him.
"Do we dream here, Messer Francesco?" she asked him, as she reached his
side, and there was laughter running through her words.
He started round at the sound of her voice, then he laughed too, softly
and gladly.
"It is a night for dreams, and I was dreaming indeed. But you have
scattered them."
"You grieve me," she rallied him. "For assuredly they were pleasant,
since, to come here and indulge them, you left--us."
"Aye--they were pleasant," he answered. "And yet, they were fraught with
a certain sadness, but idle as is the stuff of dreams. They were yours
to dispel, for they were of you."
"Of me?" she questioned, her heart-beats quickening and bringing to her
cheeks a flush that she thanked the night for concealing.
"Yes, Madonna--of you and our first meeting in the woods at Acquasparta.
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