cking
the rumbling accompaniment of the orchestra, while Rafael beat the
water with his oars in time with the pious, exalted melody with which
the great Master had turned to popular poetry adequately to greet the
outbreak of Reform.

They went on and on up the river against the current, Leonora singing,
Rafael bending over the oars, moving his sinewy arms like steel springs.
He kept the boat inshore, where the current was not so strong. At times
low branches brushed the heads of the lovers, and drops of dew fell on
their faces. Many a time the boat glided through one of the verdant
archways of foliage, making its way slowly through the lily-pads; and
the green overhead would tremble with the harmonious violence of that
wonderful voice, as vibrant and as resonant as a great silver bell.

Day had not yet dawned--the _dolce albor_ of Hans Sachs' song--but at
any moment the rosy rim of sunrise would begin to climb the sky.

Rafael was hurrying to get back as soon as possible. Her sonorous voice
of such tremendous range seemed to be awakening the whole countryside.
In one cottage a window lighted up. Several times along the river-bank,
as they rowed past the reeds, Rafael thought he heard the noise of
snapping branches, the cautious footsteps of spies who were following
them.

"Hush, my darling. You had better stop singing; they'll recognize you.
They'll guess who you are."

They reached the bank where they had embarked. Leonora leaped ashore.
They must separate there; for she insisted on going home alone. And
their parting was sweet, slow, endless.

"Good-bye, my love; one kiss. Until tomorrow ... no, later--today."

She walked a few steps up the bank, and then suddenly ran back to
snuggle again in her lover's arms.

"Another, my prince ... the last."

Day was breaking, announced not by the song of the lark, as in the
garden of Shakespere's lovers at Verona, but by the sound of carts,
creaking over country roads in the distance, and by a languid, sleepy
melody of an orchard boy.

"Good-bye, Rafael.... Now I must really go. They'll discover us."

Wrapping her coat about her she hurried away, waving a final farewell to
him with her handkerchief.

Rafael rowed upstream toward the city. That part of the trip--he
reflected--alone, tired, and struggling against the current, was the one
bad part of the wonderful night. When he moored his boat near the bridge
it was already broad day. The windows of the river houses