Conceive if you can the darkness of Egypt, the darkness that can be felt, impaled and stabbed through its whole thickness by one mighty moonbeam, clear and clean and cold, from the top to the bottom.  All around, in the circle of the outer black, lie the great dead in their tombs, whispering to each other of deeds that shook the world; whispering in a language all their own as yet—­the language of the life to come—­the language of a stillness so dread and deep that the very silence clashes against it, and makes dull, muffled beatings in ears that strain to catch the dead men’s talk:  the shadow of immortality falling through the shadow of death, and bursting back upon its heavenward course from the depth of the abyss; climbing again upon its silver self to the sky above, leaving behind the horror of the deep.

So in that lonely place at midnight falls the moon upon the floor, and through the mystic shaft of rays ascend and descend the souls of the dead.  Hedwig stood out alone upon the white circle on the pavement beneath the dome, and looked up as though she could see the angels coming and going.  And, as she looked, the heavy lace veil that covered her head fell back softly, as though a spirit wooed her and would fain look on something fairer than he, and purer.  The whiteness clung to her face, and each separate wave of hair was like spun silver.  And she looked steadfastly up.  For a moment she stood, and the hushed air trembled about her.  Then the silence caught the tremor, and quivered, and a thrill of sound hovered and spread its wings, and sailed forth from the night.

“Spirto gentil dei sogni miei—­”

Ah, Signorina Edvigia, you know that voice now, but you did not know it then.  How your heart stopped, and beat, and stopped again, when you first heard that man sing out his whole heartful—­you in the light and he in the dark!  And his soul shot out to you upon the sounds, and died fitfully, as the magic notes dashed their soft wings against the vaulted roof above you, and took new life again and throbbed heavenward in broad, passionate waves, till your breath came thick and your blood ran fiercely—­ay, even your cold northern blood—­in very triumph that a voice could so move you.  A voice in the dark.  For a full minute after it ceased you stood there, and the others, wherever they might be in the shadow, scarcely breathed.

That was how Hedwig first heard Nino sing.  When at last she recovered herself enough to ask aloud the name of the singer, Nino had moved quite close to her.

“It is a relation of mine, signorina, a young fellow who is going to be an artist.  I asked him as a favour to come here and sing to you to-night.  I thought it might please you.”

“A relation of yours!” exclaimed the contessina.  And the others approached so that they all made a group in the disc of moonlight.  “Just think, my dear baroness, this wonderful voice is a relation of Signor Cardegna, my excellent Italian master!” There was a little murmur of admiration; then the old count spoke.