Emilia shuddered.  “No; poor things!  Why do you hurt them?  Kill wicked people, tyrant white-coats!  And we will not talk of killing now.  Proud of me?  If I can make you!”

“You sigh so heavily!”

“Something makes me feel like a little beggar.”

“When I tell you I love you?”

“Yes; but I only feel rich when I am giving; and I seem to have nothing to give now:—­now that I have lost Italy!”

“But you give me your love, don’t you?”

“All of it.  But I seem to give it to you in tatters it’s like a beggar; like a day without any sun.”

“Do you think I shall have that idea when I hear you sing to me, and know that this little leaping fountain of music here is mine?”

Dim rays of a thought led Emilia to remark, “Must not men keel to women?  I mean, if they are to love them for ever?”

Wilfrid smiled gallantly:  “I will kneel to you, if it pleases you.”

“Not now.  You should have done so, once, I dreamed only once, just for a moment, in Italy; when all were crying out to me that I had caught their hearts.  I fancied standing out like a bright thing in a dark crowd, and then saying “I am his!” pointing to you, and folding my arms, waiting for you to take me.”

The lover’s imagination fired at the picture, and immediately he told a lover’s lie; for the emotion excited by the thought of her glory coloured deliciously that image of her abnegation of all to him.  He said:  “I would rather have you as you are.”

Emilia leaned to him more, and the pair fixed their eyes on the moon, that had now topped the cedar, and was pure silver:  silver on the grass, on the leafage, on the waters.  And in the West, facing it, was an arch of twilight and tremulous rose; as if a spirit hung there over the shrouded sun.

“At least,” thought Wilfrid, “heaven, and the beauty of the world, approve my choice.”  And he looked up, fancying that he had a courage almost serene to meet his kindred with Emilia on his arm.

She felt his arm dreamily stressing its clasp about her, and said:  “Now I know you love me.  And you shall take me as I am.  I need not be so poor after all.  My dear! my dear!  I cannot see beyond you.”

“Is that your misery?” said he.

“My delight! my pleasure!  One can live a life anywhere.  And how can I belong to Italy, if I am yours?  Do you know, when we were silent just now, I was thinking that water was the history of the world flowing out before me, all mixed up of kings and queens, and warriors with armour, and shouting armies; battles and numbers of mixed people; and great red sunsets, with women kneeling under them.  Do you know those long low sunsets?  I love them.  They look like blood spilt for love.  The noise of the water, and the moist green smell, gave me hundreds of pictures that seemed to hug me.  I thought—­what could stir music in me more than this? and, am I not just as rich if I stay here with my lover, instead of flying to strange countries, that I shall not care for now?  So, you shall take me as I am.  I do not feel poor any longer.”