"Better perhaps," he said, with his eyes upon the clouds. "Forget that there is such a woman as Ilaria," she said. "I, too, shall strive to forget the past."-- "Who can forget?" he muttered. "While life lasts, memory lives on!" They had come to the causeway, where the track wound like a black snake towards the golden heights. Not a sound was there save the distant surging of the sea. The distorted trees thrust out their hands and seemed to cry an eternal "Vale" to the two upon the road. At the foot of the causeway, Francesco turned his horse. "Go in peace!" he said, his voice vibrating with inward emotion, her image haunting his heart, like a fell dream at night. She stretched out a hand. "Francesco--you will not leave me yet?" "Ah!" he cried with sudden great bitterness, "is it so easy to say farewell?" His strong despair swept over her like a wind. She sat mute and motionless upon her horse, gazing at him helplessly as one half dazed. On the cliffs above, San Nicandro beckoned with the great cross above its topmost pinnacle. Ilaria shivered, struggled with herself, perverse as of yore. "What am I, that you should desire me?" she said. "I have but little beauty, and am growing old. Leave me, Francesco, and forget me! Forget and forgive! I have no heart to struggle with the world!" Francesco was white to the lips, as he stiffened his manhood to meet the wrench. "God knows how I have loved you,--how I love you still!" "Francesco," she said, leaning towards him from the saddle. He gave a hoarse cry and covered his face with his hands. "For pity's sake," he said, "say no more to me! It is enough!"-- They had reached the gate. He pricked his horse with his spurs, wheeled from her and dashed down the road without a look. His face was as the face of a man who rode to meet his death. "Francesco!" she cried to him, as she saw him plunge to a gallop, saw the shield between his shoulders dwindle into the night. "Francesco!" she cried again, a sudden loneliness seizing on her heart. "Francesco, come back! Francesco--" The cry was in vain, for he would not listen, deeming her pity more grievous than her scorn. Despair spurred him on; the black night called. Ilaria watched him vanish into the increasing gloom, while on the cliffs San Nicandro stood, like the great gate of death. CHAPTER IV DEAD LEAVES Through bleak and desolate stretches Francesco spurred his steed, as if to outstrip his mastering agony.