last time, shading the candle with his hand, so as to throw the light
down the staircase. Then he entered the apartment and locked himself in.
Having passed through the large square vestibule and through a small
room that led from it, he raised the latch of the next door very
cautiously, shaded the candle again and looked in. A cool breeze almost
put out the light.

"I am not asleep," said a sweet young voice. "I am here by the window."

He smiled happily at the words. The candle-light fell upon a woman's
face, as he went forward--such a face as men may see in dreams, but
rarely in waking life.

Half sitting, half lying, she rested in Eastern fashion among the silken
cushions of a low divan. The open windows of the balcony overlooked the
low houses opposite, and the night breeze played with the little
ringlets of her glorious hair. Her soft eyes looked up to her lover's
face with infinite trustfulness, and their violet depths were like clear
crystal and as tender as the twilight of a perfect day. She looked at
him, her head thrown back, one ivory arm between it and the cushion, the
other hand stretched out to welcome his. Her mouth was like a southern
rose when there is dew on the smooth red leaves. In a maze of creamy
shadows, the fine web of her garment followed the lines of her resting
limbs in delicate folds, and one small white foot was quite uncovered.
Her fan of ostrich feathers lay idle on the Persian carpet.

"Come, my beloved," she said. "I have waited long."

Contarini knelt down, and first he kissed the arching instep, and then
her hand, that felt like a young dove just stirring under his touch, and