"Sing something," said Giorgione. He raised the flute to his lips, breathing into it a gay, gentle air. The lute and cithara, from the opposite side, took it up. Presently the tenor voice joined in, carrying the air with sweet, high notes. They fell softly on the ear.
The slender fingers plucking at the cithara faltered. The bosom beneath its white tunic, where a single pansy glowed, trembled with swift breathing, and the red lips parted in a quick sigh.
Titian looked up, smiling reproachfully: "Violante! ah, Violante!" he murmured softly.
She shook her head smilingly. A tear rested on her cheek. "I cannot help it," she said; "it is the music."
"Yes, it is the music," said Titian. His tone was dry—half cynical.
Her husband looked over with faithful eyes and smiled at her.
Only Zarato had not looked up. His eyes followed the dancing leaden water. A flush had come into his sallow cheek. But the moonlight did not reveal it.
Violante glanced at him timidly.
"Come, we will try again," she said. She swept her cithara, and the tenor voice took up the notes. "Faster!" she said. The time quickened. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone.
"Chi boit et ne reboit, ne cais qua boir soit," rang out the voice.