He felt the love for the friends of his youth turning slowly into hate. Once again he had proved himself, once again he had been crucified on the altar of Duty!
Let the stormy billows of life then sweep him onward to whatever destiny a dark fate had consigned him! Since loyalty had proved his undoing, why cling to outward show?—
How perfect was the night!
The distant hillsides were hushed. The very leaves were still. The olive woods shone silvery in the moonlight!
The splashing of the fountains came clear to him in the intense stillness. In the moonlight the roses were nodding to each other and the perfume of magnolias permeated the balmy night air. Farther in the shade he could see the Lucciola, in whose heart were hidden the love-words caught from lovers' lips,—what a mission for a flower! On the highroad he heard the tramp of horses' feet. They came nearer, stopped, then died away in the distance.
Afraid even to move Francesco peered through the leaves.
But the only sound he could hear was the beating of his own heart.
He stood alone in the garden.
Love seemed to have died out of the eyes of life, and the world seemed to shiver in disillusionment.