Hera gave him an appreciative smile and a nod, although he had not made his words carry above the roar and yell that were with them always.
The wheels on one side clear of the earth, they rounded a corner and darted forth on the fine river road. Now the way was as level as a plank. Sandro moved the speed lever, and the file of poplars, yards apart, chased away like giants close upon one another’s heels. Houses on the passing hillside, with lighted windows, winked at them and were gone. All the details of the landscape were on the move. Villages streamed by in jumbled masses of low masonry.
The bridge of Speranza swept past to join other landmarks, and Hera caught sight of a horseman, so far ahead as to be beyond the range of the lamps but showing distinctly in the paleness of the night. Standing up and leaning forward so that she might pour all the power of her voice against Sandro’s ear-drum, she told him to “Stop!” It was two miles yet to Villa Barbiondi, and he answered her with only an assurance that there was no danger. And not until she had shaken him by the shoulder and pointed to the figure now in the lamp glare did he shut off speed and set his brake down.
The rider had gone from the highway into the little road that ran uphill to the monastery ruins. Within a few feet of the turning Sandro brought the car to a halt. He looked around for the lady, but she had disengaged herself from the lap covering, thrown off the mask, and was on the ground, running toward the horseman. With all her strength she called his name, and the grove of maples into whose darkness he had passed gave back her voice.
“Mario, Mario! It is I, Hera!”
He heard, and his horse, checked violently, reared and curvetted in turning, then came toward her at a gallop, out into the moonlight. Quickly she told him of the emancipating event in Milan and the dying words that had sent her to warn him; but there was no bitterness for any one now in either heart. All the world was love for the man and woman standing there beneath the stars, prisoners of honour and despair suddenly made free. The shadow of a solitary yew tree touched them—a symbol of what had been. The lonely cry of a bird sounded; somewhere in the distance a dog barked; and as they started for the highway a swishing of leafy bush drew their gaze toward a figure with loping carriage that slunk away toward the bridge of Speranza. He never looked back, but went like a panther balked of his prey.
When a year had passed they met once more in the cloister ruins, amid the sleeping fragrance of the wild flowers. As careless children they roamed in the age-old garden, thrilled with the thought of Love set free. The afternoon had faded far; the sun touched only the capitals of the low Doric columns, where ivy and honeysuckle cleaved and iridescent sun-birds dipped into flowery cups. The gentlest wind that ever tried its wings stole in by the clefts of grey wall and made the tiny white bells of the vale lilies tremble. Bees murmured over the tufts of fragrant thyme.
Once they wandered a little apart, she to cull the blooms of a strawberry plant, he to pluck white and pink and gold from the many grasses for the garland that she said she would make; and they called to one another over the bushes in sheer transport of joy. They came upon a bud of eglantine, called by them rosa salvatica, but for their garland they did not take it, because it was a symbol of love unfulfilled.
A while and they left the bright aspect of the cloister to enter the gloom of the chapel, he carrying the big cluster of blossoms. Suddenly she turned and looked back, and with a little cry ran to regain the hat she had tossed on a grassy bank; and the trifle was enough to set their laughter pealing again.