"It must end in a storm. The stars look white and sick with the heat. Perhaps they are paling their ineffectual fires before the brilliance of the lightning which they can see but we cannot."
We had gained the summit of the hillock whereon I had before stood. I seated myself.
"There is her house, or rather there is its position," said I, pointing to the trees. "Do you see that hedge? She was gliding alongside it when I saw her. Martelli, picture yourself alone here; disposed by the drowsy moonlight and vague murmurs in the air to unpleasant thoughts. Suddenly a white dim shape flits upon the gloom, pauses, vanishes, to reappear at your elbow—would you not use your legs?"
His white teeth shone beneath his black moustache.
"No. It would probably be the other who would use its legs. I should seize it—man or woman, angel or goblin!"
"Then your nerves must be of galvanised wire, your muscles iron, your spirit something more surprising than the timid essence that vitalises such a lower order of being as I."
He smoked the cheroot I had given him, without response.
I lay back with my head reposing on my arm, my eyes fixed on the stars.
"Look!" he suddenly cried; "there is your spirit!"
I started—rose to my feet at once. She stood, habited as I had before seen her, at the gate of the garden, motionless.