“Take here my word,” he wrote to Schoppe, “that as soon as the probable war of Gallic freedom breaks out I take my part decidedly in it, for it.”

But at Ischia, Albano was dazzled by a wonder; he saw Linda de Romeiro.  When she raised her veil, beauty and brightness streamed out of a rising sun; delicate, maidenly colours, lovely lines and sweet fullness of youth played like a flower garland about the brow of a goddess, with soft blossoms around the holy seriousness and mighty will on brow and lip, and around the dark glow of the large eye.

As Albano and Linda walked on the mountain Epomeo, looking upon the coasts and promontories of that rare region, upon cities and sea, upon Vesuvius without flame or thunder, white with sand or snow, Albano’s heart was an asbestos leaf written over and cast into the fire—­burning, not consuming; his whole former life went out, the leaf shone fiery and pure for Linda’s hand.  He gazed into her face lovingly and serenely as a sun-god in morning redness, and pressed her hands.  “Give them to me for ever!” said he earnestly.

She inclined modestly her beautiful head upon his breast, but immediately raised it again, with its large, moist eyes, and said hurriedly, “Go now!  Early to-morrow come, Albano!  Adio!  Adio!”

Count Gaspard bestowed his paternal consent on the union, and the lovers returned separately to Hohenfliess.  A difference arose; Albano was still bent on warring for France, Linda sought to dissuade him.  They quarrelled, and parted in anger.

On the day after the quarrel Linda received a letter in Albano’s handwriting begging forgiveness, and asking for a meeting in the gardens of Lilar.  She went there at the appointed evening hour, although, owing to the night-blindness from which, like many Spaniards, she often suffered, she could not see her lover.  But she kissed him, and heard his burning words of love.

But Albano had not written, and had not entered Lilar.  Roquairol’s old passion for Linda was undiminished; his rage at Albano was beyond bounds.  He could mimic Albano’s writing and voice; he knew of Linda’s night-blindness.  On the next night, in the presence of Albano and Linda, he slew himself with his own hand.

The death of Roquairol lay like a blight between the lovers.  They parted for ever.

III.—­Idoine

“War!” This word alone gave Albano peace.  He made himself ready for a journey to France, and ere he set forth he sought out the little spot of earth, beneath a linden-tree, where reposed the gentle Liana, the friendly, lovely angel of peace.

Suddenly, with a shudder, he beheld the white form of Liana herself leaning against the linden.  He believed some dream had drawn down the airy image from heaven, and he expected to see it pass away.  It lingered, though quiet and mute.  Kneeling down, he exclaimed, “Apparition, comest thou from God?  Art thou Liana?”