. . . . . . . .
She appeared above me in a great effulgence that emanated from herself as if she were grown luminous. Her robe was of cloth of silver and of a dazzling sheen, and it hung closely to her lissom, virginal form, defining every line and curve of it; and by the chaste beauty of her I was moved to purest ecstasy of awe and worship.
The pale, oval face was infinitely sweet, the slanting eyes of heavenly blue were infinitely tender, the brown hair was plaited into two long tresses that hung forward upon either breast and were entwined with threads of gold and shimmering jewels. On the pale brow a brilliant glowed with pure white fires, and her hands were held out to me in welcome.
Her lips parted to breathe my name.
“Agostino d'Anguissola!” There were whole tomes of tender meaning in those syllables, so that hearing her utter them I seemed to learn all that was in her heart.
And then her shining whiteness suggested to me the name that must be hers.
“Bianca!” I cried, and in my turn held out my arms and made as if to advance towards her. But I was held back in icy, clinging bonds, whose relentlessness drew from me a groan of misery.
“Agostino, I am waiting for you at Pagliano,” she said, and it did not occur to me to wonder where might be this Pagliano of which I could not remember ever to have heard. “Come to me soon.”
“I may not come,” I answered miserably. “I am an anchorite, the guardian of a shrine; and my life that has been full of sin must be given henceforth to expiation. It is the will of Heaven.”
She smiled all undismayed, smiled confidently and tenderly.