She rose quietly from the table ere Gonzaga's song was done, and as quietly she slipped from the room.
It was a fine night, the air heavy with the vernal scent of fertile lands, and the deep cobalt of the heavens a glittering, star-flecked dome in a lighter space of which floated the half-disk of the growing moon.

Such a moon, she bethought her, as she had looked at with thoughts of him, the night after their brief meeting at Acquasparta.

She had gained that north rampart on which he had announced that duty took him, and yonder she saw a man---the only tenant of the wall--leaning upon the embattled parapet, looking down at the lights of Gian Maria's camp.

He was bareheaded, and by the gold coif that gleamed in his hair she knew him.

Softly she stole up behind him.
"Do we dream here, Messer Francesco ?" she asked him, as she reached his side, and there was laughter running through her words.
He started round at the sound of her voice, then he laughed too, softly and gladly.
"It is a night for dreams, and I was dreaming indeed.