Far off at the other end of the room De Pretis struck a chord on the piano.  They started at the sound.

“When?” whispered Nino, hurriedly.

“At midnight, under my window,” she answered, quickly, not thinking of anything better in her haste.  “I will tell you then.  You must go; my father will soon be here.  No, not again,” she protested.  But he drew her to him, and said good-bye in his own manner.  She lingered an instant, and tore herself away.  De Pretis was playing loudly.  Nino had to pass near him to go out, and the maestro nodded carelessly as he went by.

“Excuse me, maestro,” said Hedwig, as Nino bowed himself out; “it was a question of arranging certain lessons.”

“Do not mention it,” said he, indifferently; “my time is yours, signorina.  Shall we go through with this solfeggio once more?”

The good maestro did not seem greatly disturbed by the interruption.  Hedwig wondered, dreamily, whether he had understood.  It all seemed like a dream.  The notes were upside down in her sight, and her voice sought strange minor keys unconsciously, as she vainly tried to concentrate her attention upon what she was doing.

“Signorina,” said Ercole at last, “what you sing is very pretty, but it is not exactly what is written here.  I fear you are tired.”

“Perhaps so,” said she.  “Let us not sing any more to-day.”  Ercole shut up the music and rose.  She gave him her hand, a thing she had never done before; and it was unconscious now, as everything she did seemed to be.  There is a point when dreaming gets the mastery and appears infinitely more real than the things we touch.

Nino, meanwhile, had descended the steps, expecting every moment to meet the count.  As he went down the street a closed carriage drove by with the Lira liveries.  The old count was in it, but Nino stepped into the shadow of a doorway to let the equipage pass, and was not seen.  The wooden face of the old nobleman almost betrayed something akin to emotion.  He was returning from the funeral, and it had pained him; for he had liked the wild baroness in a fatherly, reproving way.  But the sight of him sent a home thrust to Nino’s heart.

“Her death is on my soul for ever,” he muttered between his set teeth.  Poor innocent boy, it was not his fault if she had loved him so much.  Women have done things for great singers that they have not done for martyrs or heroes.  It seems so certain that the voice that sings so tenderly is speaking to them individually.  Music is such a fleeting, passionate thing that a woman takes it all to herself; how could he sing like that for anyone else?  And yet there is always someone for whom he does really pour out his heart, and all the rest are the dolls of life, to be looked at and admired for their dress and complexion, and to laugh at when the fancy takes him to laugh; but not to love.