"Feel!" she said. "This is not marble! It is very flesh, though turned to stone!" And she shuddered. "Only a statue, dearest!" he answered soothingly. "Around Naples, they say, the earth is full of such!" "It is the White Lady!" She had risen now and regained her self-control, and she spoke with unwonted dignity and calm. "It is the White Lady," she repeated, "but you know, you have never consented to her spells. She rules here in the dusk! How you tremble! There is no need! Sunlight for you is but a few paces away! See, I will go with you to the entrance of the grotto!" In truth a strange tremor had seized him. He stood as if unable to leave the spot. She was looking on his face with anxious eyes. "Doubtless," he said at last, and despised himself as he spoke, "you would prefer other company than mine in the presence of your White Lady!" She raised her white hands to her throat again, and laughed, a laugh which the vaults re-echoed as a sob. "Forgive,--forgive! I am cruel!" cried Francesco. "I know not what I say!" "You are overheated," she said. "Bathe your brows, as you have bathed mine. It is true, I did not find the touch so cooling." "The waters of Lethé," said Francesco very slowly. "Shall I bathe my brows in them indeed? Already, simply standing by them, I think I have forgotten many things. I have a better thought. Will you drink of them with me, Ilaria? It would not be the first time we have tasted of the same cup in the presence of Venus!" Was he mistaken? Or, in the glimmering light, did he see a shadow passing over the flower-soft face? She did not reply, but softly stroked his hair. Her touch burned, electrified him. For a moment he submitted to the sensation, then, as her soft, white hands stole around his throat, he folded her in a close embrace and kissed her passionately on her lips. From the waters came the swinging rhythm of the Barcarole. "Non senti mai Achillé Per Pulisena bella, Lé cocenti favillé Quant' io senti per quella. "Udendo sua favella Angelica e venozza, Parlar si amorosa In su la fresca erbetta." The time for metaphors had passed. He raised his head. "I love you, Ilaria," he stammered, drunk with her sweetness, "love you, as I have never loved anything on earth. Ilaria--Ilaria--" "Are we not free?" she whispered, her lips very close to his. He kissed them again and again, then tossed back his head. "Free?" he said. "Who is free? Ghostly powers, fates from ancient days,--drive us, flesh and blood, whither they will!" She shook her head, and on her lips played the old-time childhood smile. "Have you forgot?" she whispered into his ear, holding him very close. "But it is not for me to remind you--" With a sudden change her restraint had vanished. "We are among the shades," she continued, "where Proserpina should be at home. The world of sun is far!" "I love you--" he stammered, gazing at her with wide, hungry eyes.