The sleeper stirred uneasily, yet deeper grew the dream.
When the last sounds had died away, there was renewed stillness, then the same hoarse voice cried:
"Bring hither the bride! Bring hither the bride!"
An old man, patriarch of sorcerers, nearly bent double with age, came forward with shuffling steps.
"What is the name of the bride? What is the name of the bride?"
"Ilaria Caselli! Ilaria Caselli!" roared the great voice.
Hearing the pronouncement of her name, Francesco's blood froze in his veins.
"Ilaria! Ilaria!" rang the cry from the crowd. "Ave Arcisponsa Ilaria!"
They brought her forward, though she would have fled. They dragged her trembling before the throne. A chill, as of death smote her; she would have closed her eyes, but something caused her to look in the direction where Francesco lay, unable to move, unable to stir. His limbs seemed paralyzed; he wanted to cry out to her, his voice failed him. Vainly she called to him, vainly she strained eyes, arms and body towards him. He tried to rise, to rush to her aid, to rescue her from the clutches of the terrible apparition on the throne, when suddenly the goat-skin fell from him and he stood revealed to Francesco, as he of the Leaden Lamb, his green eyes devouring the girlish form that stood trembling before him.