The daylight had faded, and the first faint flush of the invisible moon was pervading the air.  The undulating ridge of the Sabine mountains stood softly denned against the horizon, and here and there a great, flat-topped stone pine was seen looming up along the edges of the landscape.  Cranbrook ate hurriedly the frugal dinner which was served him from a neighboring trattoria, then lighted a cigar, and walked out into the garden.  He sat for a while on the balustrade of the terrace, looking out over the green campagna, over which the moon now rose large and red, while the towers and domes of the city stood, dark and solemn, in the foreground.  The bells of Santa Maria Maggiore were tolling slowly and pensively, and the sound lingered with long vibrations in the still air.  A mighty, shapeless longing, remotely aroused or intensified by the sound of the bells, shook his soul; and the glorious sight before him seemed to weigh upon him like an oppressive burden.  “Annunciata,” came in heavy, rhythmic pulses through the air; it was impossible not to hear it.  The bells were tolling her name:  “Annun-ciata, Annun-ciata.”  Even the water that was blown from the Triton’s mouth whispered softly, as it fell, “Annunciata, Annunciata.”

Cranbrook was awakened from his reverie by the sound of approaching footsteps.  He turned his head and recognized, by the conspicuous shovel-hat, the old priest who had prophesied such a cheerful future for him in the hereafter.  And was that not Annunciata who was walking at his side?  Surely, that was her voice; for what voice was there in all the world with such a rich, alluring cadence?  And that firm and splendidly unconscious walk—­who, with less than five generations’ practice could even remotely imitate it?  Beloved Annunciata!  Wondrous and glorious Annunciata!  In thy humble disguise thou art nevertheless a goddess, and thy majestic simplicity shames the shrill and artificial graces of thy sisters of the so-called good society.  But surely, child, thou art agitated.  Do not waste those magnificent gestures on the aged and callous priest!

“Thou art hard-hearted and cruel, Padre Gregorio!” were the words that reached Cranbrook’s ears.  “The Holy Virgin would not allow any one to suffer forever who is good and kind.  How could he help that his father and his mother were not of the right faith?”

The padre’s answer he could not distinguish; he heard only an eager murmur and some detached words, from which he concluded that the priest was expostulating earnestly with her.  They passed down the long staircase into the lower garden, and, though their forms remained visible, their voices were soon lost among the whispering leaves and the plashing waters.  Cranbrook followed them steadily with his eyes, and a thrill of ineffable joy rippled through his frame.  He had at last, he thought, the assurance for which he had yearned so long.  Presently he saw Annunciata stop, plunge her hands into a side-pocket, and pull