All about them was the fragrance of the dewy, flower-scented summer night, the flash of fireflies, the chirp of crickets, occasionally the note of a nightingale.
Before them out of a cluster of cypresses, rose the square graceful outline of the village campanile.
Constance looked about with a pleased, contented sigh.
'Isn't Italy beautiful, Tony ?' 'Yes, signorina, but I like America better.' 'We have no cypresses and ruins and nightingales in America, Tony.

We have a moon sometimes, but not that moon.' They passed from the moonlight into the shade of some overhanging chestnut trees.

Fidilini stumbled suddenly over a break in the path and Tony pulled him up sharply.

His hand on the bridle rested for an instant over hers.
'Italy is beautiful--to make love in,' he whispered.
She drew her hand away abruptly, and they passed out into the moonlight again.

Ahead of them where the road branched into the highway, the others were waiting for Constance to catch up, the two officers looking back with an eager air of expectation.