But she was obliged to lift her face a little to keep her tears from falling.
"Do not be sad!" pleaded the young man, whose soul was suspended on those eyelids, whence the tears would not fall. "You hold my heart in your hand. I never will fail you. Then why torment yourself? I am wholly yours."
For him, too, the image of Donatella was there, with her rounded figure, her body as robust and agile as a wingless Victory, armed with the glory of maidenhood, attractive yet hostile, ready to struggle, and then to yield. But his soul was suspended from the eyelids of the other woman, like the tears that veiled the eyes in which he had seen the vastness of the universe, the infinity of love.
"Foscarina!"
At last the warm tears fell, but she did not let them course down her cheeks. With one of those movements that sometimes sprang from her sadness with the swift grace of a freed wing, she checked them, moistened her finger-tips with them, and touched her temples without drying them. And, while she still kept her tears upon herself, she tried to smile.
"Forgive me, Stelio. I am so weak!"
"Ah, dear fingers—beautiful as Sofia's! Let me kiss them as they are, still wet."
Within his caressing arm, he drew her across the field to a zone of golden green. Lightly, with his arm supporting hers, he kissed her finger-tips, one after another, more delicate than the buds of the tuberose. She startled, and he felt her tremble at each touch of his lips.
"They are salt!"
"Take care, Stelio! Some one may see us."