The evening star shone out in the fading sky.
The dusk was travelling towards the night.
Creation shivered towards a deeper dream.
The summer moon had risen, shedding its magic light over the Gulf of Naples.
The very soul of Francesco was thrilled by the harmony around him; the harmony in the moon's golden trail, which fell upon the waters, a blazing path, reaching from Posilippo to the rim of the horizon, harmony in the soft murmur of the sea, and the light breeze which carried, together with the salt freshness of the sea-air, sweet perfumes from the shores of Sorento with their lemon and orange groves; harmony in the silvery curves of Vesuvius, wrapped in luminous mists, its rugged cone emitting a white smoke, which trailed along the upper zones of the air, the summit of the mountain flaring up from time to time, like dying embers consecrated to the gods, the gods who had died, had risen again, and had again expired.
"How wondrous lovely the night!" Francesco at last turned to his silent companion. "All nature seems as one magic blossom—"
"My blossom-season is past," she answered very lightly.
"It is always blossom-season where Proserpina treads," said Francesco, his eyes fixed on the face he loved so well.
"You look almost as you did, when we were both happy."
"Is it so long ago? Yes, I am old, Ilaria. Our youth seems far, far away!"