As all were
withdrawing, he threw his cloak about him and walked on the terrace.
It was a night soft as the rhyme that sighs from Rogers' shell, and
brilliant as a phrase just turned by Moore. The thousand stars smiled
from their blue pavilions, and the moon shed the mild light that makes a
lover muse. Fragrance came in airy waves from trees rich with the golden
orange, and from out the woods there ever and anon arose a sound, deep
and yet hushed, and mystical, and soft. It could not be the wind!
His heart was full, his hopes were sweet, his fate pledged on a die. And
in this shrine, where all was like his love, immaculate and beautiful,
he vowed a faith which had not been returned. Such is the madness of
love! Such is the magic of beauty!
Music rose upon the air. Some huntsmen were practising their horns. The
triumphant strain elevated his high hopes, the tender tone accorded with
his emotions. He paced up and down the terrace in excited reverie, fed
by the music. In imagination she was with him: she spoke, she smiled,
she loved. He gazed upon her beaming countenance: his soul thrilled with
tones which, only she could utter.
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