Valentini lit the hanging lamp and drawing the upright easel under it settled himself to work. He was preparing the drawing of a water colour study of costume. He worked steadily for half an hour or so, then pushed back the easel with an expression of disgust and walked to the window, lighting a _toscano_ as he did so. The moonlight lay clear and cold over the city roofs, throwing the endless variety of chimney-pots into bold relief. As he stood looking out the clocks of the city struck ten--not in unison, each striking in turn and making the most of it. The bells of S. Spirito across the river pealed the hour. A carriage rattled over the stone pavements a street or two away, but just below all was dark and silent, from the Via Calzaioli around the corner came the subdued hubbub of the promenading crowd. The young man closed the window and went back to his seat, passing his hand wearily over his forehead. "Another of those headaches, and this thing must be finished by to-morrow noon!" he groaned, and set resolutely to work. At the same hour, Ragna was leaning out of her window, gazing at the silvery Arno, bordered by its golden chain of lamps and barred by its light crowned bridges. The pension was on the Lung Arno Acciajoli between the Ponte Vecchio, and the St. Trinità bridge, so that to the right she saw the Carraja bridge, and beyond that the long sweeping curve of the river towards the Cascini, and on the other hand above the Ponte Vecchio, the cypress crowned height of S. Miniato shadowy against the star-powdered sky. "Here I shall find peace," she said to herself. The dark spire of S. Spirito across the river drew her gaze, and beyond and behind it, on Bellosguardo, a white house stood out softly in the moonlight. The river rippled by gently, slipping past the stained walls of the gloomy old houses opposite overhung by the mystery of their forbidding black height, and out again into the light, reflecting the brightness of moon and stars, in a thousand flickering wavelets; from the _pescaja_ far below came the muffled sound of the water flowing over the dam. Down on the street some men were playing mandolins and guitars, and singing in mellow passionate voices; the plaintive minor refrain of the _stornelli_ rose in the still night, and the girl's heart ached with the beauty of it all. Then silently, slowly, tears fell from her eyes; she suddenly felt lonely, miserable, shut out from love, shorn of the illusions that should be hers by right. The hated face of Mirko interposed itself between her and the beauty of the night, and the old shame gripped her by the throat. With a choking sob she flung the casement to and crept into bed. From below the words of the song, swelling in the soft spring air, floated up to her: "_Metti anche tu, la veste bianca--_" Ah, yes, the bride's dress of virgin white was indeed for her! CHAPTER IX