must conquer my feeling."

As eight o'clock struck, Albano knelt in the dusk, crying, "Peace,
peace!"

Idoine trembled as she heard him; but she entered, clothed in white, the
image of the dead Liana.

"Albano, have peace!" she said, in a low and faltering tone.

"Liana!" he groaned, weeping.

"Peace!" cried she more strongly, and vanished.

"I have my peace now, good Schoppe," said Albano softly, "and now I will
sleep."

Time gradually unfolded Albano's grief instead of weakening it. His life
had become a night, in which the moon is under the earth, and he could
not believe that Luna would gradually return with an increasing bow of
light. Not joys, but only actions--those remote stars of night--were now
his aim. As he travelled with his father in Italy after his recovery,
the news of the French Revolution gave an object to his eagerness.

"Take here my word," he wrote to Schoppe, "that as soon as the probable
war of Gallic freedom breaks out I take my part decidedly in it, for
it."

But at Ischia, Albano was dazzled by a wonder; he saw Linda de Romeiro.
When she raised her veil, beauty and brightness streamed out of a rising