“Thinking something dangerous, I’ll warrant.” She brushed the rebellious curls from her forehead and leant back against the wall laughing. “Thinking all kinds of thoughts: that it pays best in this world to steal what you want.” “Perhaps--if you steal strongly.” “But I have stolen strongly; see how I’ve carried you off.” We discovered a little hotel, the courtyard of which was invaded by a garden and opened out beyond into a misty orchard. At sound of our entrance a white-haired old country-woman came out from the office, holding her knitting in her hands. I made to go towards her, but Fiesole detained me. “You’re my prisoner,” she said; “I’m responsible. You stay here and I’ll tell her what we want.” The air had grown sharper, but the moments were too precious to be spent indoors. We had our dinner served beneath a fig-tree in the courtyard, where we could see the shadows creeping through the garden and hear the sabots clap along the causeways. We were almost shy with one another. We had little to say, and that little was spoken with our eyes for the most part. We did not dare to think: for me there was the ghost of Vi; and she also had I knew not what memories. We were restless till the meal was ended; the contact of live hands was the best speech possible. The tremulous dusk had fallen when we wandered out into the narrow climbing streets, traveling directionless under broken archways, past ancient churches--bribes to God for forgiveness for wrongs still more ancient. We peeped into crouching cottages as we passed. We were glad of their company; they kept us from giving way to the tumult of feeling that ran riot in our hearts. Their small leaded windows were like lanterns set out to guide and not to watch us. We had glimpses through the glowing panes of kindly peasant interiors, with low ceilings and home-made furnishings. Sometimes at a rough table round which wine and bread were passed, the family was gathered, their faces illumined by a solitary candle in the center; looming out of the shadows on the wall was the cross. Sometimes the man was still at work, carving sabots or weaving, while the woman held a child to her breast, or rocked it in a cradle on the stone-paved floor. One by one the lights were quenched and the doors fastened. Fiesole leant more heavily against me, her arm encircling me, her head upon my shoulder. Now that the town slept, I could feel the wild clamor of her body and hear the fluttering intake of her breath. The wind, whispering through flowering trees, blew cool and fragrant in our nostrils. For intervals there was no sound save the rustle of falling blossoms and our own stealthy footsteps; from somewhere out in the pale dusk, a lamb would call and its mother would answer. Above us, between steep roofs, as down a beaten pathway, the silver chariot of the moon plunged onward, scattering the clouds before it.