We walked along in silence till we reached the end of the path. There, before us, lay the open garden, with its broad green lawn, bathed in the lovely light of the full moon, sailing aloft in a cloudless sky. The night was very warm, but, regardless of this fact, Cellini wrapped carefully round me a large fleecy white burnous that he had taken from a chair where it was lying, on his way through the avenue. "I am not cold," I said, smiling. "No; but you will be, perhaps. It is not wise to run any useless risks." I was again silent. A low breeze rustled in the tree-tops near us; the music of the ballroom reached us only in faint and far echoes; the scent of roses and myrtle was wafted delicately on the balmy air; the radiance of the moon softened the outlines of the landscape into a dreamy suggestiveness of its reality. Suddenly a sound broke on our ears--a delicious, long, plaintive trill; then a wonderful shower of sparkling roulades; and finally, a clear, imploring, passionate note repeated many times. It was a nightingale, singing as only the nightingales of the South can sing. I listened entranced. "'Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown,'" quoted Cellini in earnest tones. "You admire Keats?" I asked eagerly. "More than any other poet that has lived," he replied. "His was the most ethereal and delicate muse that ever consented to be tied down to earth. But, mademoiselle, you do not wish to examine me as to my taste in poetry. You have some other questions to put to me, have you not?" For one instant I hesitated. Then I spoke out frankly, and answered: "Yes, signor. What was there in that wine you gave me this morning?" He met my searching gaze unflinchingly. "A medicine," he said. "An excellent and perfectly simple remedy made of the juice of plants, and absolutely harmless." "But why," I demanded, "why did you give me this medicine? Was it not wrong to take so much responsibility upon yourself?" He smiled. "I think not. If you are injured or offended, then I was wrong; but if, on the contrary, your health and spirits are ever so little improved, as I see they are, I deserve your thanks, mademoiselle." And he waited with an air of satisfaction and expectancy. I was puzzled and half-angry, yet I could not help acknowledging to myself that I felt better and more cheerful than I had done for many months. I looked up at the artist's dark, intelligent face, and said almost humbly: "I DO thank you, signor. But surely you will tell me your reasons for constituting yourself my physician without even asking my leave." He laughed, and his eyes looked very friendly.