Standing there upon the common grave of his comrades, a wild joy filled the young man’s heart, a joy such as must be felt to be known, for it passes the power of earthly words to tell it.  In that dim and ghastly place the sun seemed suddenly to shine as at noonday in a fair country; the crumbling masonry and blocks of broken stone grew more lovely than the loveliest flowers, and from the dark figure of that lonely heart-broken woman the man who loved her saw a radiance proceeding which overflowed and made bright at once his eyes and his heart.  In the intensity of his emotion, the hand which lay upon the fallen stone contracted suddenly and broke off a fragment of the loosened mortar.

At the slight noise, Faustina turned her head.  Her eyes were wide and wild, and as she started to her feet she uttered a short, sharp cry, and staggered backward against the wall.  In a moment Anastase was at her side, supporting her and looking into her face.

“Faustina!”

During a few seconds she gazed horrorstruck and silent upon him, stiffening herself and holding her face away from his.  It was as though his ghost had risen out of the earth and embraced her.  Then the wild look shivered like a mask and vanished, her features softened and the colour rose to her cheeks for an instant.  Very slowly she drew him towards her, her eyes fixed on his; their lips met in a long, sweet kiss—­then her strength forsook her and she swooned away in his arms.

Gouache supported her tenderly until she sat leaning against the wall, and then knelt down by her side.  He did not know what to do, and had he known, it would have availed him little.  His instinct told him that she would presently recover consciousness and his emotions had so wholly overcome him that he could only look at her lovely face as her head rested upon his arm.  But while he waited a great fear began to steal into his heart.  He asked himself how Faustina had come to such a place, and how her coming was to be accounted for.  It was long past midnight, now, and he guessed what trouble and anxiety there would be in her father’s house until she was found.  He represented to himself in quick succession the scenes which would follow his appearance at the Palazzo Montevarchi with the youngest daughter of the family in his arms—­ or in a cab, and he confessed to himself that never lover had been in such straits.

Faustina opened her eyes and sighed, nestled her head softly on his breast, sighing again, in the happy consciousness that he was safe, and then at last she sat up and looked him in the face.

“I was so sure you were killed,” said she, in her soft voice.

“My darling!” he exclaimed, pressing her to his side.

“Are you not glad to be alive?” she asked.  “For my sake, at least!  You do not know what I have suffered.”