ament was disputing over the massacre
of Dogali; the neighbouring streets and squares swarmed with the
populace and with soldiers.

Musical memories of Schifanoja came back to the lovers, a reflected
gleam from those fair autumn days illumined their thoughts.
Mendelssohn's Minuet called up before them a vision of the villa by the
sea, of rooms filled with the perfume of the terraced garden, of
cypresses lifting their dark heads into the soft sky, of flaming sails
upon a glassy sea.

Bending towards his companion, Andrea whispered softly: 'What are you
thinking about?'

With a smile so faint that he hardly caught it, she answered:

'Do you remember the 22nd of September?'

Andrea had no very clear recollection of this date, but he nodded his
head.

The Andante, calm, broad and solemn, dominated by a wonderful and
pathetic melody, had ended in a sudden outburst of grief. The Finale
lingered in a certain rhythmic monotony full of plaintive weariness.

'Now comes your favourite Bach,' said Donna Maria.

And when the music commenced they both felt an instinctive desire to
draw closer to each other. Their shoulders touched; at the end of each
part Andrea leant over her to read the programme which she held open in
her hands, and in so doing pressed against her arm, inhaling the perfume
of her violets, and sending a wild thrill of ecstasy through her. The
Adagio rose with so exultant a song, soared with so jubilant a strain to
the topmost summits of rapture, and flowed wide into the Infinite, that
it seemed like the voice of some celestial being pouring out the joy of
a deathless victory. The spirits of the audience were borne along on
that irresistible torrent of sound. When the music ceased, the tremor of
the instruments continued for a moment in the hearers. A murmur ran from
one end of the hall to the other. A moment later and the applause broke
forth vehemently.

The lovers turned simultaneously and looked at one another with swimming
eyes.

The music continued; the light began to fade; a gentle warmth pervaded
the air, and Donna Maria's violets breathed a fuller fragrance. Seeing
nobody near him whom he knew, Andrea almost felt as if he were alone
with her.

But he was mistaken. Turning round in one of the pauses, he caught sight
of Elena standing at the back of the hall with the Princess of
Ferentino. Instantly their eyes met. As he bowed to her, he seemed to
catch a singular smile on Elena's lips.

'To