Such were the thoughts that Agnes twisted into the shining white flax, while her eyes wandered dreamily over the soft hazy landscape.  At last, lulled by the shivering sound of leaves, and the bird-songs, and wearied with the agitations of the morning, her head lay back against the end of the sculptured fountain, the spindle slowly dropped from her hand, and her eyes were closed in sleep, the murmur of the fountain still sounding in her dreams.  In her dreams she seemed to be wandering far away among the purple passes of the Apennines, where she had come years ago when she was a little girl; with her grandmother she pushed through old olive-groves, weird and twisted with many a quaint gnarl, and rustling their pale silvery leaves in noonday twilight.  Sometimes she seemed to carry in her bosom a wounded eagle, and often she sat down to stroke it and to try to give it food from her hand, and as often it looked upon her with a proud, patient eye, and then her grandmother seemed to shake her roughly by the arm and bid her throw the silly bird away;—­but then again the dream changed, and she saw a knight lie bleeding and dying in a lonely hollow,—­his garments torn, his sword broken, and his face pale and faintly streaked with blood; and she kneeled by him, trying in vain to stanch a deadly wound in his side, while he said reproachfully, “Agnes, dear Agnes, why would you not save me?” and then she thought he kissed her hand with his cold dying lips; and she shivered and awoke,—­to find that her hand was indeed held in that of the cavalier, whose eyes met her own when first she unclosed them, and the same voice that spoke in her dreams said, “Agnes, dear Agnes!”

For a moment she seemed stupefied and confounded, and sat passively regarding the knight, who kneeled at her feet and repeatedly kissed her hand, calling her his saint, his star, his life, and whatever other fair name poetry lends to love.  All at once, however, her face flushed crimson red, she drew her hand quickly away, and, rising up, made a motion to retreat, saying, in a voice of alarm,—­

“Oh, my Lord, this must not be!  I am committing deadly sin to hear you.  Please, please go! please leave a poor girl!”

“Agnes, what does this mean?” said the cavalier.  “Only two days since, in this place, you promised to love me; and that promise has brought me from utter despair to love of life.  Nay, since you told me that, I have been able to pray once more; the whole world seems changed for me:  and now will you take it all away,—­you, who are all I have on earth?”

“My Lord, I did not know then that I was sinning.  Our dear Mother knows I said only what I thought was true and right, but I find it was a sin.”

“A sin to love, Agnes?  Heaven must be full of sin, then; for there they do nothing else.”

“Oh, my Lord, I must not argue with you; I am forbidden to listen even for a moment.  Please go.  I will never forget you, Sir,—­never forget to pray for you, and to love you as they love in heaven; but I am forbidden to speak with you.  I fear I have sinned in hearing and saying even this much.”