The garden was flooded with that golden moonlight which creates in the beholder the illusion of unreality; for not in the midnight dark, but where radiance is warmest and intensest, are spirits most naturally expected by the sensitive mind. Where the light of the moon was most translucent, there stood a man in the mythical garb of Hermes, catching therein the full moon glamour. As he looked up he met the gaze of Francesco. "Come down, Francesco," he cried in comical despair. "Despite my winged feet I cannot pull the car of Amor, and he refuses to use his wings!" A strange light leaped into Francesco's eyes. "Why not summon Pluto, God of the Underworld?" "He declines to waive his right to march beside Proserpina, and you know the Frangipani is quite capable of making a quarrel out of a revel." "And who is Proserpina?" "Ilaria Caselli." "Who calls me?" a voice at this moment spoke from the thicket, and ere either could answer a girlish figure stepped into the moonlight, paused and looked in amaze at Francesco. The latter exchanged a few words with his companion who bowed and withdrew. Slowly she moved towards the terrace; lithe and languid, she seemed herself the Queen of Blossoms, her dusky hair, flower-crowned, enveloped in rainbow bloom. "Francesco!" she called, surprise and appeal in her tone. "I knew not you were here! Come down!" "Yes,--Ilaria," he said, yet stood at gaze and made no sign to stir. The light in his eyes had died. She stood below him, half in the light, half in the shadow, her neck and throat bare, her arms in tight sleeves of flower-embroidered gauze. "Come down!" she called more imperiously. "Why do you delay?" He moved round the wall to the descending stair and presently was by her side. "When did you return?" she asked, extending her hands to him. He took them, pressed them fervently in his own, then, bending over them, kissed them passionately. "Within the hour," he replied, his eyes in hers. "And your mission?" "It is accomplished!" "I am glad," she said, and saw not the look of anguish that passed over his face. "I came to ask you," her bosom was heaving strangely, "to be near me when the pageant breaks. I am afraid of Raniero Frangipani!" "Yet you chose the role of Proserpina, knowing--" He broke off, a shiver of constraint in his voice. "Who told you?" He pointed in the direction where his informant had disappeared. "Messer Gualtiero! You knew," he then continued slowly, "that Raniero would be your companion in the pageant!" Ilaria pouted. "Mine is the part of Lady of Sorrows--Queen of the Underworld!" "And the Frangipani's society is the price you pay for your high estate." She looked at him, then dropped her eyelids on a sudden. "Why should I fear, when you are by?" Something clutched at Francesco's throat. "I may not always be near you!" She arched her eyebrows. "Then I must look for another protector!" she retorted with a shrug.