“Has your excellency a taper?” asked Temistocle suddenly, forcing his head between Nino’s body and the door, in order to be heard.

“Yes.  I put it out.”

“And matches?” he asked again.

“Yes.”

“Then let your excellency light the taper, and drop some of the burning wax on the end of the key.  It will be like oil.”  There was a silence.  The key was withdrawn, and a light appeared through the hole where it had been.  Nino instantly fastened his eye to the aperture, hoping to catch a glimpse of Hedwig.  But he could not see anything save two white hands trying to cover the key with wax.  He withdrew his eye quickly, as the hands pushed the key through again.

Again the lock groaned,—­a little sob of effort, another trial, and the bolts flew back to their sockets.  The prudent Temistocle, who did not wish to be a witness of what followed, pretended to exert gigantic strength in pulling the door open, and Nino, seeing him, drew back a moment to let him pass.

“Your excellency need only knock at the upper door,” he said to Hedwig, “and I will open.  I will watch, lest anyone should enter from above.”

“You may watch till the rising of the dead,” thought Nino, and Hedwig stood aside on the narrow step, while Temistocle went up.  One instant more, and Nino was at her feet, kissing the hem of her dress, and speechless with happiness, for his tears of joy flowed fast.

Tenderly Hedwig bent to him, and laid her two hands on his bare head, pressing down the thick and curly hair with a trembling, passionate motion.

“Signor Cardegna, you must not kneel there,—­nay, sir, I know you love me!  Would I have come to you else?  Give me your hand—­now—­do not kiss it so hard—­no—­Oh, Nino, my own dear Nino—­”

What should have followed in her gentle speech is lacking, for many and most sweet reasons.  I need not tell you that the taper was extinguished, and they stood locked in each other’s arms against the open door, with only the reflection of the moon from the houses opposite to illuminate their meeting.

There was and is to me something divinely perfect and godlike in these two virgin hearts, each so new to their love, and each so true and spotless of all other.  I am old to say sweet things of loving, but I cannot help it; for though I never was as they are, I have loved much in my time.  Like our own dear Leopardi, I loved not the woman, but the angel which is the type of all women, and whom not finding I perished miserably as to my heart.  But in my breast there is still the temple where the angel dwelt, and the shrine is very fragrant still with the divine scent of the heavenly roses that were about her.  I think, also, that all those who love in this world must have such a holy place of worship in their hearts.  Sometimes the kingdom of the soul and the palace of the body are all Love’s, made beautiful and rich with rare offerings of great constancy and faith; and all the countless creations of transcendent genius, and all the vast aspirations of far-reaching power, go up in reverent order to do homage at Love’s altar, before they come forth, like giants, to make the great world tremble and reel in its giddy grooves.