"I am so dependent on these little things! You are an angel, a general and a man of heart." "The man of your heart, I hope you mean to say," answered San Miniato, looking at Beatrice.
"Of course--anything you like--you are delightful.

But I am dropping with fatigue.

Let me sit down." "You have forgotten nothing--not even the moon you promised me," said Beatrice, gazing with clasped hands at the great yellow shield as it slowly rose above the far south-eastern hills.
"I will never forget anything you ask me, Donna Beatrice," replied San Miniato in a low voice.

Something told him that in the face of all nature's beauty, he must speak very simply, and he was right.
There is but one moment in the revolution of day and night which is more beautiful than the rising of the full moon at sunset, and that is the dawn on the water when the full moon is going down.

To see the gathering dusk drink down the purple wine that dyes the air, the sea and the light clouds, until it is almost dark, and then to feel the darkness growing light again with the warm, yellow moon--to watch the jewels gathering on the velvet sea, and the sharp black cliffs turning to chiselled silver above you--to know that the whole night is to be but a softer day--to see how the love of the sun for the earth is one, and the love of the moon another--that is a moment for which one may give much and not be disappointed.
Beatrice Granmichele saw and felt what she had never seen or felt before, and the magic of Tragara held sway over her, as it does over the few who see it as she saw it.