“Oh?  You are affianced?  Already?” she asked gaily.

“No—­not unless you are,” gaily answered John.

She looked down at her ring.

VII

The quiet-coloured end of evening smiled fainter, fainter.  The aerial city, its cloud-capped towers and gorgeous palaces, had crumbled into ruins, and stars twinkled among their shattered and darkened walls.  The moon burned icily above the eastern hills.  The nightingales (or John was no true prophet) sang better than they had ever sung before, while bats, hither, thither, flew in startling zig-zags, as if waltzing to the music.  And all the air was sweet with the breath of dew-wet roses.

The clock struck eight.

“There—­you must go,” said Maria Dolores.

“Go?  Where to?” asked John, feigning vagueness.

“This is no subject for jest,” said she, feigning severity.

“I can’t go yet—­I can’t leave you yet,” said he.  “Besides, it is an education in aesthetics to watch the moonlight on these marble columns, and the pale shadows of the vine-leaves.”

“Well, then,” said she, “stay you here and pursue your education.  I will go in your place.  For Marcella Cuciniera must be relieved.”  She rose, and moved towards the darkling front of the Castle.

“Hang education!  I’ll go with you,” said John, following.

“I shall only stop a moment, to see how she is,” said Maria Dolores.  “Then I must hurry home, to get my packing begun.”

“Your packing?” faltered John.

“To-morrow morning Frau Brandt and I are leaving for Austria—­for Schloss Mischenau, where my brother lives.”

“Good Lord!” said John.  “Ah, well, I suppose it is what they would call the proper course,” he admitted with gloomy resignation.  “But think how dreadfully you’ll be missed—­by Annunziata.”

“Annunziata is so much better, I can easily be spared,” said Maria Dolores; “and anyhow—­’tis needs must.  I think you will probably soon receive a letter from my brother, asking you to visit him.  Mischenau is a place worth seeing, in its northern style.  And, in his northern style, my brother is a man worth meeting.  I counsel you to go.”

“I shall certainly go,” said John.  “I shall linger here at Sant’ Alessina like a soul in durance, counting the hours till my release.  I shall be particularly glad to meet your brother, as I have matters of importance to arrange with him.”

“Until then,” said she, smiling, “I think we must do with those—­matters of importance”—­her voice quavered on the word—­“what is it that the Pope sometimes does with Cardinals?”

“Yes,” moodily consented John, “I suppose we must.  But oh me, what a dreary, blank, stale, and unprofitable desolation this garden will become,—­and at every turn the ghost of some past joy!”

Annunziata looked up with eyes that seemed omniscient.