"Forgive,—forgive! I am cruel!" cried Francesco. "I know not what I say!"
"You are overheated," she said. "Bathe your brows, as you have bathed mine. It is true, I did not find the touch so cooling."
"The waters of Lethé," said Francesco very slowly. "Shall I bathe my brows in them indeed? Already, simply standing by them, I think I have forgotten many things. I have a better thought. Will you drink of them with me, Ilaria? It would not be the first time we have tasted of the same cup in the presence of Venus!"
Was he mistaken? Or, in the glimmering light, did he see a shadow passing over the flower-soft face?
She did not reply, but softly stroked his hair.
Her touch burned, electrified him. For a moment he submitted to the sensation, then, as her soft, white hands stole around his throat, he folded her in a close embrace and kissed her passionately on her lips.
From the waters came the swinging rhythm of the Barcarole.
"Non senti mai Achillé
Per Pulisena bella,
Lé cocenti favillé
Quant' io senti per quella.
"Udendo sua favella
Angelica e venozza,
Parlar si amorosa
In su la fresca erbetta."
The time for metaphors had passed. He raised his head.