Then we fell silent, and the shadows of the sadness I had left behind me seemed to shut out the kindly stars.  I would have taken my arm away, but that the Countess drew it nearer to herself, clasping her hands about it, and said softly—­

“Tell me more—­” and then, after a little pause, she added, “and you may call me Lucia!  For have you not saved my life?”

Like a dream the old Edinburgh room, where with Giovanni Turazza I read the Tuscan poets, came to me.  An ancient rhyme was in my head, and ere I was aware I murmured—­

“Saint Lucy of the Eyes!”

The Countess started as if she had been stung.

“No, not that—­not that,” she said; “I am not good enough.”

There was some meaning in the phrase to her which was not known to me.

“You are good enough to be an angel—­I am sure,” I said—­foolishly, I fear.

There was a little silence, and a waft of scented air like balm—­I think the perfume of her hair, or it may have been the roses clambering on the wall.  I know not.  We were passing some.

“No,” she said, very firmly, “not so, nor nearly so—­only good enough to desire to be better, and to walk here with you and listen to you telling of your mother.”

We walked on thus till we heard the roar of the Trevisa falls, and then turned back, pacing slowly along the shore.  The Countess kept her head hid beneath the mantilla, but swayed a little towards me as though listening.  And I spoke out my heart to her as I had never done before.  Many of the things I said to her then, caused me to blush at the remembrance of them for many days after.  But under the hush of night, with her hands pressing on my arm, the perfume of flowers in the air, and a warm woman’s heart beating so near mine, it is small wonder that I was not quite myself.  At last, all too soon, we came to the door, and the Countess stood to say good-night.

“Good-night!” she said, giving me her hand and looking up, yet staying me with her great eyes; “good-night, friend of mine!  You saved my life to-day, or at least I hold it so.  It is not much to save, and I did not value it highly, but you were not to know that.  You have told me much, and I think I know more.  You are young.  Twenty-three is childhood.  I am twenty-six, and ages older than you.  Remember, you are not to fall in love with me.  You have never been in love, I know.  You do not know what it is.  So you must not grow to love me—­or, at least, not too much.  Then you will be ready when the True Love that waits somewhere comes your way.”

She left me standing without a word.  She ran up the steps swiftly.  On the topmost she poised a moment, as a bird does for flight.

“Good-night, Douglas!” she said.  “Stephen is a name too common for you—­I shall call you Douglas.  Remember, you must love me a little—­but not too much.”

I stood dull and stupid, in a maze of whirling thought.  My great lady had suddenly grown human, but human of a kind that I had had no conception of.  Only this morning I had been opening the stores of very chill wisdom to my pupil, Henry Fenwick of Allerton.  Yet here, long ere night was at its zenith, was I, standing amazed, trying under the stars to remember exactly what a woman had said, and how she looked when she said it.