Julienne withdrew to make arrangements for the little day's journey over the island. Albano despatched a note to Dian, containing the _marche-route_ to Naples. Linda said, in respect to Julienne, "A deeply and firmly grounded character!" "The stem and twigs all buried in little fragrant blossoms!" he added. "And exactly what she hates in books and conversations,--poesy,--that she pursues right earnestly in action. Individuality is everywhere to be spared and respected, as the root of everything good. You, too, are very good," she added, with soft voice. "Truly, I am so at present," said he; "for I love right heartily; and only a complete being can one really love, and with entire disinterestedness." "So must the sun's image strike full and round, in order to burn." "Or an image which one takes for it," said she; "I am what I am, and cannot easily become anything else. If man has only a will once for all, which goes through life, not alternating from minute to minute, from being to being, that is the main thing." "Linda," cried Albano, "I hear my own soul. There are words which are actions; yours are." When she thus spoke out her soul, her beautiful form vanished from before his enchanted spirit, as the golden string vanishes when it begins to sound. Wounded and punished by the past for his often hard energy, he breathed only with a gentle breath--although now life, the world, and the very region made him bolder, brighter, firmer, and more ardent--upon the _unisonant_ Æolian strings of this _many-toned_ soul. But how must she have been charmed with a man at once so mighty and so tender,--a soft constellation of near suns,--a beautiful war-god with the lyre,--a storm-cloud full of Aurora,--a spirited, ardent youth, whose thought was so honest! She said it not, however, but simply loved, like him. He threw an accidental glance at her little table-library. "Nothing but French!" said she. He found _Montaigne_, the life of _Guyon_, the _Contrat Social_, and, last of all, _Madame de Staël sur l'Influence des Passions_. He had read this, and said how infinitely pleased he had been with the articles upon love, parties, and vanity, and, in short, with her German or Spanish heart of fire, but not with her bald French philosophy, least of all with her immoral suicide-mania. "Good Heaven!" cried Linda; "is not life itself a long suicide? Albano, all men are still somewhere or other pedants, the good in morality so called, and you especially. Maxims of Kant, great, broad classifications, principles, must they all have. You are all born Germans, real Germans of the Germans, even you, friend. Am I right?" she added, softly, as if she desired a "yes."