As she neared the arbour an instant panic seized her. Some sound, more self-betraying than her own light footfall, had penetrated to her through the flapping shutters of the wind--a voice, a tuneful vibration. She stood transfixed, her thoughts poised on the prick of swift escape. And then she flushed a little and remembered herself. She was the Infanta, mistress of her own actions and of her chosen retreat. Very resolute she stepped on, the trampling rain covering her approach, and paused once more, herself unseen, within close hearing of the sound. It was the stranger, alone apparently within the arbour, and communing with himself through the medium most natural to him. For the first time she heard him, witless of any audience, delivering up his soul like an unconscious bird. She felt it like a revelation, while she stood spell-bound. There was no forced cleverness here, no artificial display, even of the sort that had won the children’s hearts; it was just moving thought transmuted into music. She hardly gathered the import of the words, nor desired to. It was enough that they blent themselves inevitably with the haunting melody his fingers drew from the strings, and spoke with it a language that was articulate only to the soul. The effect was no more nor less than a sensuous selection of sweet sounds, gathered, as they offered themselves, into a fragrant bouquet, whose scent, to speak in symbols, touched the deep tears of things. Suddenly conscious of something warmer than a raindrop on her cheek, Isabella started and moved. The music ceased on the instant. She took her shamefaced courage in hand, and entered the arbour. He rose from the bench on which he had been seated, looking as if he saw an apparition. She smiled at him a little faintly. “You did not know, monsieur, that this place was sacred to my meditations?” “I did not know, Madonna. What can I do to expiate such desecration?” “Not speak in mockery, at least.” “Ah! Do I?” “Your eyes betray you, I think. I will be candid with you, monsieur. It is not the first time I have read them so. Is it that you regard your mission with so little seriousness?” He was startled enough--on the point of prevaricating. “Will you not tell me the truth?” she said sincerely. His brows bent a little. “Will you have it, Madonna?” he answered in a moment. “See, I entered here, all unguessing of its holiness, to brood alone. The weather, I thought, secured me. But there are others, it seems, who feel its fascination no less. Will you not forgive the innocent sacrilege, and bid me go?” “Are we, then, so distasteful to you that you must leave us in order to brood alone--on your injuries, perhaps?” “I have injuries; but I do not wish to speak of them.” “Monsieur, I stood a little while outside--I say it to my shame--listening to you. That is to confess; and will you not reciprocate my candour? _Please_, monsieur.” The pretty entreaty quite disarmed him.