Her white purity had raised her above him; if he had wakened her soul, she had in turn given him a soul within his soul, wakening it to what it never knew before, new dreams, new ambitions, new desires. Through her he had seen the great world which was her world, wherein lay all for which men long and strive. One glimpse he had; and now the gates were closed and the light was gone and he was thrust back into outer darkness.-- A peal of laughter rose to him, a burst of music, a half hundred voices shouting acclaim in response to some unheard toast. He looked down once more into the light and the color of the great hall, seeing one there only, out of all that brilliant throng, one fair and drooping, with scarlet poppies framing her white face. Long and long he looked, as though he would burn her image upon his heart and mind forever: the woman he had lost, and who had never been his. Suddenly he saw Ilaria start. Some one seemed to have brought a message to her. With a smile to those seated next to her, she arose from the board and, hurrying across the hall, entered a dim, dusky corridor. Almost at the same moment Francesco, impelled by curiosity and misgivings, quitted his point of vantage, and, turning into the nearest passage, descended by a winding stair into the hall below. In some way the intricate labyrinth of corridors confused his mind, and he found himself in a circular chamber of rough blocks of stone, with two doors. Around the walls hung instruments of war, of torture, of the chase; chains with heavy balls of iron attached, a stand of spears, another of great swords. Here were also great six-foot bows, such as the Saracen archers used, and suits of armor with shields and breast-plates, and crested helmets of brass and iron. Francesco paused, listened for Ilaria's footsteps, then, failing to hear a sound, traversed the chamber on tiptoe until he came to the opposite door. Beyond this chamber there opened a spacious court. Blindly Francesco stumbled onward, wondering at the silence, and wondering what direction Ilaria had taken, when, traversing the court, he suddenly paused at the entrance of a dimly lighted hall. A single cresset burned upon the dais wall, and the fire on the ground hearth under the louvre sent up a drift of smoke into the murk above. The great space was full of shadows and of silence. Suddenly Francesco gave a start, as if he had seen a spectre. In an oaken chair by the dais sat Raniero Frangipani. The brutal expression of his countenance seemed even enhanced by the shadows which played upon it, and the expression of his eyes boded little good for whomsoever his presence was intended. His sword lay beside him on the table; his shield was propped against a carved mazor-bowl. Francesco felt there was mischief brewing, wondered, and held his breath.