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Moaning with fright, Valeria awoke after long efforts.–Still not comprehending where she is and what is the matter with her, she half raises herself up in bed and looks about her…. A shudder runs through her whole body…. Fabio is lying beside her. He is asleep; but his face, in the light of the round, clear moon, is as pale as that of a corpse … it is more melancholy than the face of a corpse. Valeria awoke her husband–and no sooner had he cast a glance at her than he exclaimed: “What is the matter with thee?”

“I have seen … I have seen a dreadful dream,” she whispered, still trembling….

But at that moment, from the direction of the pavilion, strong sounds were wafted to them–and both Fabio and Valeria recognised the melody which Muzio had played to them, calling it the Song of Love Triumphant.–Fabio cast a glance of surprise at Valeria…. She closed her eyes, and turned away–and both, holding their breath, listened to the song to the end. When the last sound died away the moon went behind a cloud, it suddenly grew dark in the room…. The husband and wife dropped their heads on their pillows, without exchanging a word, and neither of them noticed when the other fell asleep.

V

On the following morning Muzio came to breakfast; he seemed pleased, and greeted Valeria merrily. She answered him with confusion,– scrutinised him closely, and was startled by that pleased, merry face, those piercing and curious eyes. Muzio was about to begin his stories again … but Fabio stopped him at the first word.

“Evidently, thou wert not able to sleep in a new place? My wife and I heard thee playing the song of last night.”

“Yes? Did you hear it?”–said Muzio.–“I did play it, in fact; but I had been asleep before that, and I had even had a remarkable dream.”

Valeria pricked up her ears.–“What sort of a dream?” inquired Fabio.

“I seemed,” replied Muzio, without taking his eyes from Valeria, “to see myself enter a spacious apartment with a vaulted ceiling, decorated in Oriental style. Carved pillars supported the vault; the walls were covered with tiles, and although there were no windows nor candles, yet the whole room was filled with a rosy light, just as though it had all been built of transparent stone. In the corners Chinese incense-burners were smoking; on the floor lay cushions of brocade, along a narrow rug. I entered through a door hung with a curtain, and from another door directly opposite a woman whom I had once loved made her appearance. And she seemed to me so beautiful that I became all aflame with my love of days gone by….”

Muzio broke off significantly. Valeria sat motionless, only paling slowly … and her breathing grew more profound.

“Then,” pursued Muzio, “I woke up and played that song.”

“But who was the woman?” said Fabio.

“Who was she? The wife of an East Indian. I met her in the city of Delhi…. She is no longer among the living. She is dead.”

“And her husband?” asked Fabio, without himself knowing why he did so.

“Her husband is dead also, they say. I soon lost sight of them.”

“Strange!” remarked Fabio.–“My wife also had a remarkable dream last night–which she did not relate to me,” added Fabio.

But at this point Valeria rose and left the room. Immediately after breakfast Muzio also went away, asserting that he was obliged to go to Ferrara on business, and that he should not return before evening.

VI

Several weeks before Muzio’s return Fabio had begun a portrait of his wife, depicting her with the attributes of Saint Cecilia.–He had made noteworthy progress in his art; the famous Luini, the pupil of Leonardo da Vinci, had come to him in Ferrara, and aiding him with his own advice, had also imparted to him the precepts of his great master. The portrait was almost finished; it only remained for him to complete the face by a few strokes of the brush, and then Fabio might feel justly proud of his work.