"Francis Boott."
"Ah! Francis Boott, yes. And the words?" His head had now its attentive little bend.
"They are by John Hay." To herself she added: "You shall stop your little questions; you shall say something different!" And again she looked up at him, her eyes strangely lustrous.
And then at last he did say, "May I take the music home with me? You shall have it again to-morrow. It is a very beautiful song."
Felicia rolled up the sheet and gave it to him, her hand slightly rigid as she did so from repressed emotion.
At midnight the two guests took leave, Mrs. Tracy accompanying them down to the entrance portal. The irregular open space, or piazza, before the house had a weird appearance; the roadway looked like beaten silver; the short grass had the hue and gleam of new tin; the atmosphere all about was as visibly white as it is visibly black on a dark night.
"It's the moment exactly for our ghost to come out and clank his chains," said the lady of the house. "This intensely white moonlight is positively creepy; it is made for hobgoblins and sheeted spectres; the Belmonte monk must certainly be dancing on the top of his tower."
"Oh no," said Felicia; "it's St. Mark's eve, so we're all under good protection. Hear the nightingales."