The nightingales sang him home, and the moon lighted him, the liquidmoon of April and Italy. As he approached the castle, through the purpleand silver garden, amid the mysterious sweet odours of the night, heglanced up vaguely at the pavilion beyond the clock. He glanced upvaguely, but next second he was no longer vague.
There, on a low-hung balcony, not ten feet above him, full in themoonlight, stood a figure in white--all in white, with a scarf of whitelace thrown over her dark hair. The nightingales sang and sobbed, themoon rained its amethystine fire upon the earth, the earth gave forthits mysterious sweet night odours, and she stood there motionless, andbreathed and gazed and listened.
But at the sound of wheels in the avenue, she turned slightly, andlooked down. Her face was fair and delicate and pure in the moonlight,and her eyes shone darkly bright.
She turned, and looked down, and her eyes met John's.
"Given the hour and the place, I wonder whether I ought to bow," hethought.
Before he could make up his mind, however, his hand had automaticallyraised his hat.
She inclined her head in acknowledgment, and something softly changed inher face.
"She smiled!" he said, and caught his breath, with a kind of astonishedexultancy.
That soft change in her face came and went and came again through allhis dreams.