Her voice touched his very heartstrings, but he was too deeply moved to answer her for a moment. The renewal of this thought exalted his very soul. All that was noble and great in his nature seemed rising up in one glad triumph-song. A son of his and hers to fill a throne! Ah! God, if that were so! "I love the English," she whispered. "I have known the men of all nations--but I love the English best. They are straight and just--the fine ones at least. They are brave and fair--and fearless. And our baby Paul shall be the most splendid of any. Beloved one, you must not think me a visionary--a woman dreaming of what might never be--I see it--I know it. This will come to pass as I say, and then we shall both find consolation and rest." Thus she whispered on until Paul was intoxicated with joy and glory, and forgot time and place and danger and possible parting. A host of triumphant angels seemed singing in his ears. Then she read him poetry, and let him caress her, and smiled in his arms. But towards morning, if he had awakened, he would have found his lady prostrate with silent weeping. The intense concentrated grief of a strong nature taking its farewell. CHAPTER XVIII Now this Thursday was the night of the full moon. A cloudless morning sky promised a glorious evening. The lovers woke early, and had their breakfast on the loggia overlooking the oleander garden. The lady was in an enchanting mood of sunshine, and no one could have guessed of the sorrow of her dawn vigil thoughts. She was wayward and playful--one moment petting Paul with exquisite sweetness, the next teasing his curls and biting the lobes of his ears. She never left him for one second--it seemed she must teach him still more subtle caresses, and call forth even new shades of emotion and bliss. All fear was banished, only a brilliant glory remained. She laughed and half-closed her eyes with provoking smiles. She undulated about, creeping as a serpent over her lover, and kissing his eyelids and hair. They were so infinitely happy it was growing to afternoon before they thought of leaving their loggia, and then they started in the open gondola, and glided away through quaint, narrow canals until they came to the lagoon. "We shall not stay in the gondola long, my Paul," she said. "I cannot bear to be out of your arms, and our palace is fair. And oh! my beloved, to-night I shall feast you as never before. The night of our full moon! Paul, I have ordered a bower of roses and music and song. I want you to remember it the whole of your life." "As though I could forget a moment of our time, my sweet," said Paul. "It needs no feasts or roses--only whatever delights you to do, delights me too."