'Let be! Thou'lt kill me with thy prattle. Thy Christ remains behind. He'll see thy seed is honoured in its fruits.'
'Well, wilt thou kiss me good-night? I'm sleepy.'
He seemed to doze a good deal after that. But, about midnight, it might be, he suddenly sat up, and was singing strongly to his lute—a sweet, unearthly song, of home-returning and farewell. Cicada clung and held him, held to him, pierced all through with the awful rapture of that moment.
'Leave me not: wait for me!' she whispered, sobbing.
Suddenly, in a vibrating pause, a faint far cry was wafted to their ears:—
'Bernardo! Bernardo!'
The fingers tumbled on the lute, plucking its music into a tangle of wild discords. A string snapped.
'Carlo!' he screamed—'it is Carlo!'
The cry leapt, and fell, and eddied away in a long rosary of echoes. The Fool fumbled for his lips with hers.
But who might draw death from that sweet frozen spring!