She went with him out into the street, and when they had gone a little way he clasped her to him and kissed her hair.

His heart was full.  He knew now that she, whom he had loved when she walked in his father’s garden in her little child’s tunic, holding her mother’s hand, returned his passion.  Now the time was come for asking whether she would permit him to beg her father’s leave to woo her.

He stopped in the shadow of a house near, and, while he poured out to her all that stirred his breast, carried away by tender passion, and describing in his vehement way how great and deep his love was, in spite of the utter fatigue which weighed on her body and soul after so many agitations, she felt with deep thankfulness the immense happiness of being more precious than aught else on earth to a dear, good man.  Love, which had so long lain dormant in her as a bud, and then opened so quickly only to close again under her alarms, unfolded once more and blossomed for him again—­not as it had done just now in passionate ecstasy, but, as beseemed her calm, transparent nature, with moderated joy, which, however, did not lack due warmth and winning tenderness.

Happiness beyond words possessed them both.  She suffered him to seal his vows with kisses, herself offering him her lips, as her heart swelled with fervent thanksgiving for so much joy and such a full measure of love.

She was indeed a precious jewel, and the passion of his stormy heart was tempered by such genuine reverence that he gladly kept within the bounds which her maidenly modesty prescribed.  And how much they had to say to each other in this first opening of their hearts, how many hopes for the future found utterance in words!  The minutes flew on and became hours, till at last Melissa begged him to quit the marble seat on which they had so long been resting, if indeed her feet could still carry her home.

Little as it pleased him, he did her bidding.  But as they went on he felt that she hung heavy on his arm and could only lift her little feet with the greatest difficulty.  The street was too dark for him to see how pale she was; and yet he never took his eyes off her dear but scarcely distinguishable features.  Suddenly he heard a faint whisper as in a dream, “I can go no farther,” and at once led her back to the marble seat.

He first carefully spread his mantle over the stone and then wrapped her in it as tenderly as a mother might cover her shivering child, for a cooler breeze gave warning of the coming dawn.  He himself crept close under the wall by her side, so as not to be seen, for a long train of people, with servants carrying lanterns before them, now came out of the house they had just left and down the street.  Who these could be who walked at so late an hour in such solemn silence neither of them knew.  They certainly sent up no joyful shout of “Iakchos!” no wild lament; no cheerful laughter nor sounds of mourning were to be heard from the long procession which passed along the street, two and two, at a slow pace.  As soon as they had passed the last houses, men and women alike began to sing; no leader started them, nor lyre accompanied them, and yet their song went up as though with one voice.