“‘But my hands are so delicate,’ said the maiden.  ’You will hurt me, I am sure.’

“‘Yours is the only hand in the world that I will not hurt,’ said the voice, so tenderly and softly and sadly that the gentle fingers went out to touch the plant and see if it were real.  And touching it they clung there, for they had no harm of it.  Would you know, my lady, what happened then?”

“Yes, yes—­tell me!” cried Hedwig, whose imagination was fascinated by the tale.

“As her hands rested on the spiked branches, a gentle trembling went through the Thorn, and in a moment there burst out such a blooming and blossoming as the maiden had never seen.  Every prick became a rose, and they were so many that the light of the day was tinged with them, and their sweetness was like the breath of paradise.  But below her window the Thorn was as black and forbidding as ever, for only the maiden’s presence could make its flowers bloom.  But she smelled the flowers, and pressed many of them to her cheek.

“‘I thought you were only a Thorn,’ she said, softly.

“‘Nay, fairest maiden,’ answered the glorious voice of the bursting blossom, ’I am the Rose of the World for ever, since you have touched me.’

“That is my story, signorina.  Have I wearied you?”

Hedwig had unconsciously moved nearer to him as he was speaking, for he never raised his voice, and she hung on his words.  There was colour in her face, and her breath came quickly through her parted lips.  She had never looked so beautiful.

“Wearied me, signore?  Ah no; it is a gentle tale of yours.”

“It is a true tale—­in part,” said he.

“In part?  I do not understand—­” But the colour was warmer in her cheek, and she turned her face half away, as though looking out.

“I will tell you,” he replied, coming closer, on the side from which she turned.  “Here is the window.  You are the maiden.  The thorn—­it is my love for you”; he dropped his voice to a whisper “You planted it carelessly, far below you in the dark.  In the dark it has grown and sung to you, and grown again, until now it stands in your own castle window.  Will you not touch it and make its flowers bloom for you?” He spoke fervently.  She had turned her face quite from him now, and was resting her forehead against one hand that leaned upon the heavy frame of the casement.  The other hand hung down by her side toward him, fair as a lily against her dark gown.  Nino touched it, then took it.  He could see the blush spread to her white throat, and fade again.  Between the half-falling curtain and the great window he bent his knee and pressed her fingers to his lips.  She made as though she would withdraw her hand, and then left it in his.  Her glance stole to him as he kneeled there, and he felt it on him, so that he looked up.  She seemed to raise him with her fingers, and her eyes held his and drew them; he stood up, and, still holding her hand, his face was near to hers.  Closer and closer yet, as by a spell, each gazing searchingly into the other’s glance, till their eyes could see no more for closeness, and their lips met in life’s first virgin kiss,—­in the glory and strength of a two-fold purity, each to each.