had firmly resolved to
make Annunciata his wife, and he was utterly at a loss, and even
secretly irritated at her reluctance to have their relation revealed
to her parents. He could brook no obstacle in his march of conquest,
and was constantly chafing at the necessity of concealment. He had
frequently thought of anticipating Annunciata's decision, by
presenting himself to her parents as a Croesus from beyond the sea,
who entertained the laudable intention of marrying their fair
daughter; but somehow the character of Cophetua was ridiculously
melodramatic, and Annunciata, with her imperial air, would have made a
poor job of the beggar-maid.

It was on the tenth of March, 186--, a memorable date in the lives of
the three persons concerned in this narrative. Cranbrook had just
finished a semi-aesthetic and semi-political letter to a transatlantic
journal, in which he figured twice a month as "our own correspondent."
It was already late in the night; but the excitement of writing had
made him abnormally wakeful, and knowing that it was of no use to go
to bed, he blew out his lamp, lit a cigar and walked out upon the
_loggia_. There was a warm and fitful spring wind blowing, and the
unceasing rustling of the ilex leaves seemed cool and soothing to his
hot and overwrought senses. In the upper strata of the air, a stronger
gale was chasing dense masses and torn shreds of cloud with a fierce
speed before the lunar crescent; and the broad terrace beyond the
trees was alternately illuminated and plunged in gloom. In one of
these sudden illuminations, Cranbrook thought he saw a man leaning
against the marble balustrade; something appeared to be unwinding
itself slowly from his arms, and presently there stood a woman at his
side. Then the moon vanished behind a cloud, and all was darkness.
Cranbrook began to tremble; a strange numbness stole over him. He
stood for a while motionless, then lifted his hand to his forehead;
but he hardly felt its touch; he only felt that it was cold and wet.
Several minutes passed; a damp gust of wind swept through the
tree-tops and a night-hawk screamed somewhere in the darkness.
Presently the moon sailed out into the blue space, and he saw again
the two figures locked in a close embrace. The wind bore toward him a
dear familiar voice which sounded tender and appealing; his blood
swept like fire through his veins. Hardly knowing what he did, he
leaped down the stairs which led from the _loggia_ in