"Now am I thine until my death!" said she, softly, with streams of tears. "Only till mine!" said he, and wept now softly with the weeping flutes. Upon the golden ball on the mountain already glimmered the moon, which, like an armed comet, like a one-eyed giant, pressed on, to drive the sinner out of his Eden. "Stay till the moon comes, that I may look into thy face," she begged. "No, thou divine one, my festive steed already neighs; the death-torch burns down into my hand," said he, in a low, tragic tone. The storm had passed from heaven down to the earth. She replied, "The storm is so loud, what saidst thou, love?" He wildly kissed again her lips and her bosom. He could not go; he could not stay. "Go not to-morrow," said he, "to the Tragedian, I entreat thee; the end, I hear, is too agitating." "Besides, I never like such things. O, stay, stay longer; I am sure I shall not see thee again to-morrow." He pressed her to himself, closed her eyes with his face. The moon had already reared its Gorgon head in the east; he would let go life when he let her go from his arms; and yet every stammered word of love consumed the short moment. The storm labored in the torn trees, and the flute-tones glided away like butterflies, like innocent children beneath the great wing. Roquairol, as if confounded by such a presence, was near upon the point of saying, look at me, I am Roquairol; but the thought quickly placed itself between, she does not deserve that of thee; no, let her learn it for the first time in that hour when one forgives everything! Yet once more he held her passionately clasped to himself; already the moonlight fell in upon both; he repeated a thousand words of love and tenderness, thrust her back, turned swiftly round, and stalked away in Albano's dress through the vale. "Good night, maiden," said he to the blind girl, in passing. Linda sang not again as before. The stars looked down upon him; the storm winds spake to him; the pleasures went along by him, but they had now the masks of the furies on their faces. An arm struck down from heaven, an arm grasped up from hell, and both would seize him, to tear him asunder. "Well, well," said he, "I was fortunate indeed, but I might have been still more so had I been her curséd Albano," and flung himself upon his festive horse, and flew the same night to the Prince's garden. 129. CYCLE.