“Hush!  Your voice is very loud.  They might hear you.  My aunt’s room is in the other wing of the house, but she’s not a heavy sleeper....  Besides, I don’t care to listen to talk about remorse, pardon, and such things.  It makes me think of that morning.  The mere fact that I am letting you stay here ought to be enough, oughtn’t it?  I want to forget all that....  Hush, Rafael!  Silence makes the beauty of the night more wonderful.  The fields seem to be talking with the moon, and these waves of perfume that are sweeping over us are echoes of their passionate words.”

And she fell silent, keeping absolutely still, her eyes turned upward, catching the moonbeams in their tear-like moisture.  From time to time Rafael saw her quiver with a mysterious tremor; then extend her arms and cross them behind her head of golden hair, in a voluptuous stretch that made her white robe rustle, while her limbs grew taut in a delicious tension.  She seemed upset, ill almost; at times her panting breath was like a sob.  Her head drooped over a shoulder and her breast heaved with countless sighs.

The youth was obediently silent, fearing lest the remembrance of his base audacity should again come up in the conversation; and not venturing to reduce the distance that separated them on the bench.  She seemed to divine what he was thinking and began to speak, slowly, of the abnormal state of mind in which she found herself.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight.  I feel like crying, without knowing why.  I am filled with a strange inexplicable happiness, and yet I could just weep and weep.  Oh, I know—­it’s the Springtime; all this fragrance that whips my nerves like a lash.  I really believe I’m crazy....  Springtime!  My best friend—­though she has done me only wrong!  If ever I have been guilty of any foolish thing in my life, Spring was at the bottom of it....  It’s youth reborn in us—­madness paying us its annual visit....  And I—­ever faithful to her, adoring her; waiting in this out-of-the-way spot almost a year for her to come, to see her once more in her best clothes, crowned with orange-blossoms like a virgin—­a wicked virgin who pays me back for my devotion with betrayal!...  Just see what I’ve come to!  I am ill—­I don’t know why—­with excess of life, perhaps.  She drives me on I don’t know where, but certainly where I ought not to go....  If it weren’t for sheer will-power on my part, I’d collapse in a heap on this bench here.  I’m just like a drunken man bending every effort to keep his feet and walk straight.”

It was true; she was really ill.  Her eyes grew more and more tearful; her body was quivering, shrinking, collapsing, as if life were overflowing within her and escaping through all her pores.

Again she was silent, for a long time, her eyes gazing vacantly into space; then, she murmured, as if in answer to a thought of her own.

“No one ever understood as well as He.  He knew everything, felt as nobody ever felt the mysterious hidden workings of Nature; and He sang of Springtime as a god would sing.  Hans used to remark that many a time; and it’s so.”