Venetian lamps glowed like yellow witch-lights in the branches; fountains tossed moon-bright sprays of quicksilver aloft and tinkled with the splash; the waters of a sunken pool, jeweled in stars, glimmered darkly green through files of cypress.  All in all, an entrancing moon-mad world of mystery and dusk-moths, heavy with the scent of jasmine and orange.  And the moon played brightly on curious folk, on spangles and jewels and masked and laughing eyes.

A gray mendicant monk with sombre, thin-lipped face beneath a grayish mask slipped furtively by with a curious air of listening intently to the careless chatter about him; a fat and plaintive Queen Elizabeth followed, talking to a stout courtier who was over-trusting the seams of his satin breeches.

“I doubt if you’ll believe me,” puffed Queen Elizabeth dolorously, “but every day since that time she deliberately went out and lost herself all day in the flat-woods and stopped to look at that ridiculous cart with the wheel of flame when I was sure a buzzard had bitten her—­No!  No!  I don’t know, Jethro; I’m sure I don’t.  How should I know why it was burning?  But it was.  She said plainly that it was a cart wheel of fire and if it was a wheel it must certainly have been on something and what on earth would a wheel be on but a cart?  Certainly one wouldn’t buy a bale of cart wheels to make fires in the flat-woods.  Well, it’s the strangest thing, Jethro, but nearly every day since, she’s visited the flat-woods and wandered about with that terrible Indian girl who isn’t an Indian girl.  Seems that she’s a most extraordinary girl with a foster-father and she sells sand mounds—­no, that’s not it—­the things they find in them besides the sand—­and she has a queer, wild sort of culture and her father was white.  Like as not Diane will come home some night scalped and she has such magnificent hair, Jethro.  To her knees it is and so black!  And what must she and Ann do to-night but—­there, I promised Diane faithfully to keep it a secret, for they’ve been working for days and days and she is distractingly lovely.  With the Sherrill topazes too.  And now that she’s sold all the sand mounds, or whatever it is, do you know, Jethro, she’s going to drive Diane north to Jacksonville in the Indian wagon.  They start to-morrow morning.  I think it’s because they’re both so mad about trees and things—­I can’t for the life of me make it out.  Jethro, Diane will drive me mad—­she will indeed.  Well, all I can say, Jethro, is that if you don’t know what I’m talking about you must be very stupid to-night.  No!  No! do I ever know, Jethro?  He may be here and he may not.  He may be off in Egypt shooting scarabs by now.  He was at the farm when he wrote to me in Indiana.  Well, collecting scarabs, then, Jethro.  Why do you fuss so about little things?  Isn’t it funny—­strangest thing!”

Queen Elizabeth passed on with her aged dandy.