CHAPTER XVI
A GARDEN ON CORESSUS
The evening grew old, but the light still lingered in the sky, and Venusta suggested a walk in the garden, seeing her daughter was agitated and careworn.
The soft winds moved the leaves of the silver poplar, the violet-scented air fanned their cheeks, the convolvuli were closing, and the narcissi nodded good-night; it seemed sacrilege to break in on the perfumed silence. Varro walked with Venusta, and Nika with the Greek. Chios was the first to speak:
'Thou art unhappy to-night, Nika. What ails thee?'
'Nothing. I am happy. The evening air is sweet and pleasant to my soul, and before thou didst speak I saw the first star glisten on the diadem of night—shining out like a Pharos to the mariner; and as he knows by it that land is nigh, so see I that star a beacon on the hills of a far-away haven which perchance I may never enter, but be shipwrecked at the last.'
'Poor girl, thou art indeed sad!'
'Yea, sad I am, yet happy in my sadness. Oftentimes I am sad and wretched withal; but to-night, I know not why, I am resigned—feeling as if some great, sad joy spread its wings around me for protection. Oh that I might ever continue so! I fear this is but a prelude to a storm-wind which shall rush over and break me as a hurricane would kill those lovely flowers.'
As she spoke a night-hawk passed with a shriek, and the evening star was hid with a cloud.
'Sawest thou that dreadful bird? Heard'st thou its wail, Chios?'