He stooped to the soft white hands and held them close to his mouth, kissing them again and again when he had drank.
"Come!" she said softly.
He did not stir. She bent over him.
"Francesco! I love you—come!"
He fell prone at her feet, with a sob that shook his whole frame as with convulsions.
"Oh! That I might,—that I might! I would not sully your white purity for all there is in earth, or heaven!"
For a moment she stood rigid, white, dazed.
Suddenly he felt two arms winding themselves about his neck, two soft lips were pressed upon his own in one long, delirious kiss—then he saw Ilaria precipitately retrace her steps, and Stefano Maconi peer into the grotto.
After a time Francesco emerged into the sunlight, bewildered, dazed. Ilaria had joined the revellers, and he sank down upon a rock and covered his face with his hands.
His heart and his soul were bleeding to death within him; and like his own phantom he at last arose and walked towards the sea. The revellers had lost themselves in the depths of the groves. Again and again the swinging rhythm of their song was borne to him on the soft, fragrant breezes; yet there was but one thought in his heart, one name on his lips, as his feet bore him slowly through the blossoming wilderness: "Ilaria! Ilaria!"—