Then she read him poetry, and let him caress her, and smiled in his arms.

But towards morning, if he had awakened, he would have found his lady
prostrate with silent weeping. The intense concentrated grief of a strong
nature taking its farewell.




CHAPTER XVIII


Now this Thursday was the night of the full moon. A cloudless morning sky
promised a glorious evening.

The lovers woke early, and had their breakfast on the loggia overlooking
the oleander garden. The lady was in an enchanting mood of sunshine, and
no one could have guessed of the sorrow of her dawn vigil thoughts. She was
wayward and playful--one moment petting Paul with exquisite sweetness, the
next teasing his curls and biting the lobes of his ears. She never left him
for one second--it seemed she must teach him still more subtle caresses,
and call forth even new shades of emotion and bliss. All fear was banished,
only a brilliant glory remained. She laughed and half-closed her eyes with
provoking smiles. She undulated about, creeping as a serpent over her
lover, and kissing his eyelids and hair. They were so infinitely happy it
was growing to afternoon before they thought of leaving their loggia, and
then they started in the open gondola, and glided away through quaint,
narrow canals until they came to the lagoon.

"We shall not stay in the gondola long, my Paul," she said. "I cannot bear