She could not have trampled upon him more victoriously than by displaying the utter indifference with which she seemed to rediscover his existence. For a moment, that seemed interminable, they stood at gaze, as if some hidden hand had been laid upon them, arresting every movement. Then her lips parted slightly. "Faithless!" Then she was gone.-- How long Francesco remained rooted to the spot, he did not know. He felt as one who has walked into a place, where all the doors were closed, where calm, contemptuous faces were watching him from the windows. His chief desire now was to get away from Rome as quickly as possible. The Pontiff was at Viterbo. Thither he would travel with the dawn. He was tired of humiliations. Restless and baffled though he felt in his effort to conform his thoughts to the life he was henceforth to lead, he resented even compassion. The moon had risen higher and the sky was sprinkled with myriads of stars. Francesco stood leaning against the fountain, and heard the bells on distant Aventine tolling through the night. Their music filled the air. He tried to hush the anxiety of his heart by prayer. It was in vain. He felt the love for the friends of his youth turning slowly into hate. Once again he had proved himself, once again he had been crucified on the altar of Duty! Let the stormy billows of life then sweep him onward to whatever destiny a dark fate had consigned him! Since loyalty had proved his undoing, why cling to outward show?-- How perfect was the night! The distant hillsides were hushed. The very leaves were still. The olive woods shone silvery in the moonlight! The splashing of the fountains came clear to him in the intense stillness. In the moonlight the roses were nodding to each other and the perfume of magnolias permeated the balmy night air. Farther in the shade he could see the Lucciola, in whose heart were hidden the love-words caught from lovers' lips,--what a mission for a flower! On the highroad he heard the tramp of horses' feet. They came nearer, stopped, then died away in the distance. Afraid even to move Francesco peered through the leaves. But the only sound he could hear was the beating of his own heart. He stood alone in the garden. Love seemed to have died out of the eyes of life, and the world seemed to shiver in disillusionment. A great weariness came to him, a weariness of the heart, spreading with the swiftness of poison in the blood. His head drooped, as if the moonlight had wilted the strong neck. His eyes lost their lustre of haughtiness and fell into a vague, brooding stare. He was dull and weary; but yesterday he had thought well of the world; there seemed nor valor, nor pity, anywhere.-- Yet Francesco felt that this state could not endure. Purposeless he had drifted on the waves of destiny, the blind victim of another's will. Prayers and penances had not availed to rouse him to the acceptance of his fate.