As he came from watering his horses at the stream, he heard the sound of her footsteps amid the vines and pomegranates, chanting some sorrowful legend of lost love. Francesco had discovered a rough bridge across the stream, where giant boulders seemed to have been set as stepping-stones between the western grass-land and the castle. There was a narrow postern giving entrance through the walls. Francesco stood at the gate and listened. Above the thunder of the foaming streams her voice seemed to rise; even the great golden vault of heaven seemed full of the echoes of her passionate song. He found Ilaria seated on the terrace-way, where the oleanders bloomed. Under the stone bridge the water foamed and purled, the ferns and the moss green and brilliant above the foam. About her rose the knolls of the gold-fruited trees. Further the forests climbed into the glory of the heavens. She ceased her chanting as Francesco came to her and made room for him on the long bench of stone. There was a tinge of petulance about the red mouth, the pathetic perverseness of a heart that loved not by the will of circumstance. Ilaria was as a woman deceived by dreams. She had loved a dream, and since fate bowed not to her desire, she turned her back in anger upon the world. How Francesco loved her, she knew full well. Yet she could not forget that he had chosen the garb he wore rather than herself. Her very love for him stiffened her perverseness and caused her to delight in torturing him. Francesco sat on the stone seat and looked up at her with questioning gaze. To Ilaria there was a love therein such as only once comes into a woman's life, yet the look troubled her. She feared its appeal, feared the weakening of her own resolve. "Francesco," she said at last. He took her hand, his eyes fixed solemnly upon the face he loved so well. "You will return to Naples?" she queried with a show of indifference. "Naples is far from me as yet," he said with bowed head. "Let me not hinder you,--since go you must."-- "Are you so anxious to be relieved of me?" he said bitterly. "The fate of Conradino,--the fate of our friends hang in the balance." "I could not save them single-handed, though I would!" "Yet save them you must! You must redeem your past,--for my sake! Why not part here, since part we must? There are other claims upon my soul!" "Raniero Frangipani still lives--" "I shall never return to him!" He did not answer her for a moment. Her eyes were troubled, she looked as one whose thoughts were buffeted by a strong wind. Above them the zenith mellowed to a deeper gold, and they had the noise of the waters in their ears. "Ilaria," he said at last, "what would you with me? Am I not pledged to guard your life,--your honor?" "Ah," she said, drooping her lashes, "I shall not clog your years! The springtime of life has passed,--for each of us!" "But not my love for you!" he cried fiercely, with the tone of a man tortured by suspense.