“Let us go,” repeated Antonello, shivering.
From the top of the staircase we could already hear the sound of the water; at first it sounded hoarse, then gradually clearer and louder.
“Has the fountain been turned on?” asked the prince.
“We turned it on just now,” said Anatolia, “in honour of our guest.”
“Did you notice the play of the echo in the quadrangle, Claudio?” Don Luzio inquired. “It is extraordinary.”
“Truly extraordinary,” I replied. “It is a wonderful effect of sound. It is like a musician’s trick. I think an attentive harmonist might discover the secret of unknown chords and discords in it. It would be an incomparable training for a delicate ear. Is it not true, Donna Violante? You are on the fountain’s side, against Antonello.”
“Yes,” she said simply, “I love and understand water.”
“Laudato si, mi Signore, per sor acqua.” (Praised be Thou, O Lord, for sister water.) “Do you remember the canticle of St. Francis, Donna Massimilla?”
“Certainly,” replied the betrothed of Christ, with her faint smile, colouring slightly. “I belong to the Poor Clares.”
Her father’s look was a melancholy caress.