The garden was flooded with that golden moonlight which creates in the beholder the illusion of unreality; for not in the midnight dark, but where radiance is warmest and intensest, are spirits most naturally expected by the sensitive mind.
Where the light of the moon was most translucent, there stood a man in the mythical garb of Hermes, catching therein the full moon glamour.
As he looked up he met the gaze of Francesco.
"Come down, Francesco," he cried in comical despair. "Despite my winged feet I cannot pull the car of Amor, and he refuses to use his wings!"
A strange light leaped into Francesco's eyes.
"Why not summon Pluto, God of the Underworld?"
"He declines to waive his right to march beside Proserpina, and you know the Frangipani is quite capable of making a quarrel out of a revel."
"And who is Proserpina?"
"Ilaria Caselli."
"Who calls me?" a voice at this moment spoke from the thicket, and ere either could answer a girlish figure stepped into the moonlight, paused and looked in amaze at Francesco.