La Foscarina made no reply.
The bells of San Marco sounded the signal for the Angelus, and their tremendous clamor swelled in ever-widening waves over the still crimson lagoon which they were leaving to the memories of shadows and death. From San Giorgio Maggiore and San Giorgio dei Greci, from San Giorgio degli Schiavoni and San Giovanni in Bragora, from San Moisé, from the Salute, the Redentore, and, from one place to another, throughout the whole domain of the Evangelists, even to the distant towers of the Madonna dell' Orto, of San Giobbe and Sant' Andrea, the bronze voices answered, mingling in one great chorus floating over the silent stones and waters, a veritable dome of sound, invisible, yet the vibrations of which seemed to communicate with the scintillation of the first stars. And the reverberation above the heads of the two in the gondola was so great that they seemed to feel it in the roots of their hair and in the cool shiver of their flesh.
"Oh, is that you, Daniele?"
Stelio had recognized at the door of his own house, on the Fondamenta Samedo, the figure of Daniele Glauro.
"Ah, Stelio, I have been waiting for you!" cried Daniele breathlessly, striving to make himself heard above the pealing of bells. "Richard Wagner is dead!"
CHAPTER XV
THE LAST FAREWELL
All the world seemed to have diminished in value.
The nomad woman had armed herself anew with courage, and planned the route of her next professional tour. From the thought of the hero lying in his coffin, a lofty inspiration came to all noble hearts. La Foscarina knew how to receive it and to convert it to the thoughts and actions of daily life.
It happened that her beloved surprised her at the time she was packing her familiar books, the little cherished treasures from which she never parted—things that for her possessed the power of imparting dreams or consolation.