"Would you like to own Donovan?" said Lady Myrta, with a touch of graceful, malicious significance. "I know your arts!"
Stelio ceased laughing, and blushed like a boy.
A wave of tenderness filled La Foscarina's heart as she saw the boyish blush. She fairly sparkled with love; she felt a wild wish to clasp him in her arms at that very moment.
Before thanking Lady Myrta, Stelio looked again at the dog, admiring him as he was, strong, splendid, perfect, with the mark of style on his limbs as if Pisanello had drawn him for the reverse of a medal. Then he looked at La Foscarina, who had turned to the group of animals, moving over the grass with a swift undulation, like the movement called the greyhound step by the ancient Venetians. She advanced, with Donovan, holding him by the collar. The chill of evening began to be felt, the shadow of the bronze cupola grew longer on the grass; a purple mist, in which the last flecks of golden sunlight swam, began to spread over the branches that swayed in the breeze.
—See, we are yours!—the woman seemed to be saying mutely, while the animal, beginning to shiver, pressed close against her.—We are yours forever. We are here to serve you!
CHAPTER VII
ONLY ONE CONDITION
Heartrending was the sweetness of that November, smiling like a sick person who fancies himself to have reached a state of convalescence and feels an unusual sense of relief and well-being, knowing not that his hour of agony draws near.
"What is the matter with you to-day, Fosca? What has happened to you? Why are you so distant to me? Speak! Tell me!"
Stelio had entered San Marco by chance, and had seen her there, leaning against the chapel-door that leads to the baptistry. She was alone, motionless, her face devoured by fever and by shadows, with terrified eyes fixed on the fearful figures of the mosaics that flamed in a yellow fire.