The hill was richly draped in ferns and swaying vines. Idly he pushed aside a mass of ivy: a passage opened behind, deep-vaulted, paved with broken fragments of mosaic. Stalactites dripped from the roof, through the verdure of thick maiden-hair fern. The gloom looked grateful. Francesco stepped within and, looking out on the blue day from the waving green frame-work, saw Ilaria and Stefano Maconi approaching, engaged in eager talk. She was flushed and bore herself haughtily.
Francesco stepped quietly out into the light, unnoticed by Ilaria's companion. Ilaria evidently saw him at once. She paused and dismissed the other, regardless of his somewhat insistent protests. With half-ironic salutation she turned down the hill. Whether or no Stefano had caught sight of Francesco, as he went, was difficult to say.
Ilaria came towards the grotto, trailing her draperies, her brow troubled and sad beneath the gay chaplet.
"The sun is hot,—one craves shelter," she said lightly, yet with a tremor in her voice.
Francesco, without replying, lifted the ivy curtain and with a mute gesture invited her to enter.
They stood in the dusky gloom, speechless, hidden from each other, till their gaze became accustomed to the shade.
He was helplessly unable to break the silence. Fear, joy, desire, doubt were tossing him. The breath came fast.
She raised her arms and caught her white throat.
"How cool it is, how sweet!" she said. "At Avellino," and she glanced at him half shyly, "you would never take me to your grotto!"