The latter exchanged a few words with his companion who bowed and withdrew.
Slowly she moved towards the terrace; lithe and languid, she seemed herself the Queen of Blossoms, her dusky hair, flower-crowned, enveloped in rainbow bloom.
"Francesco!" she called, surprise and appeal in her tone. "I knew not you were here! Come down!"
"Yes,—Ilaria," he said, yet stood at gaze and made no sign to stir. The light in his eyes had died. She stood below him, half in the light, half in the shadow, her neck and throat bare, her arms in tight sleeves of flower-embroidered gauze.
"Come down!" she called more imperiously. "Why do you delay?"
He moved round the wall to the descending stair and presently was by her side.
"When did you return?" she asked, extending her hands to him.
He took them, pressed them fervently in his own, then, bending over them, kissed them passionately.
"Within the hour," he replied, his eyes in hers.
"And your mission?"