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VII

He appeared calm and contented–but related few stories; he chiefly interrogated Fabio concerning their mutual acquaintances of former days, the German campaign, the Emperor Charles; he spoke of his desire to go to Rome, to have a look at the new Pope. Again he offered Valeria wine of Shiraz–and in reply to her refusal he said, as though to himself, “It is not necessary now.”

On returning with his wife to their bedroom Fabio speedily fell asleep … and waking an hour later was able to convince himself that no one shared his couch: Valeria was not with him. He hastily rose, and at the selfsame moment he beheld his wife, in her night-dress, enter the room from the garden. The moon was shining brightly, although not long before a light shower had passed over.–With widely-opened eyes, and an expression of secret terror on her impassive face, Valeria approached the bed, and fumbling for it with her hands, which were outstretched in front of her, she lay down hurriedly and in silence. Fabio asked her a question, but she made no reply; she seemed to be asleep. He touched her, and felt rain-drops on her clothing, on her hair, and grains of sand on the soles of her bare feet. Then he sprang up and rushed into the garden through the half-open door. The moonlight, brilliant to harshness, inundated all objects. Fabio looked about him and descried on the sand of the path traces of two pairs of feet; one pair was bare; and those tracks led to an arbour covered with jasmin, which stood apart, between the pavilion and the house. He stopped short in perplexity; and lo! suddenly the notes of that song which he had heard on the preceding night again rang forth! Fabio shuddered, and rushed into the pavilion…. Muzio was standing in the middle of the room, playing on his violin. Fabio darted to him.

“Thou hast been in the garden, thou hast been out, thy clothing is damp with rain.”

“No…. I do not know … I do not think … that I have been out of doors …” replied Muzio, in broken accents, as though astonished at Fabio’s advent, and at his agitation.

Fabio grasped him by the arm.–“And why art thou playing that melody again? Hast thou had another dream?”

Muzio glanced at Fabio with the same surprise as before, and made no answer.

“Come, answer me!”

“The moon is steel, like a circular shield….
The river gleams like a snake….
The friend is awake, the enemy sleeps–
The hawk seizes the chicken in his claws….
Help!”

mumbled Muzio, in a singsong, as though in a state of unconsciousness.

Fabio retreated a couple of paces, fixed his eyes on Muzio, meditated for a space … and returned to his house, to the bed-chamber.

With her head inclined upon her shoulder, and her arms helplessly outstretched, Valeria was sleeping heavily. He did not speedily succeed in waking her … but as soon as she saw him she flung herself on his neck, and embraced him convulsively; her whole body was quivering.

“What aileth thee, my dear one, what aileth thee?” said Fabio repeatedly, striving to soothe her.

But she continued to lie as in a swoon on his breast. “Akh, what dreadful visions I see!” she whispered, pressing her face against him.

Fabio attempted to question her … but she merely trembled….

The window-panes were reddening with the first gleams of dawn when, at last, she fell asleep in his arms.

VIII

On the following day Muzio disappeared early in the morning, and Valeria informed her husband that she intended to betake herself to the neighbouring monastery, where dwelt her spiritual father–an aged and stately monk, in whom she cherished unbounded confidence. To Fabio’s questions she replied that she desired to alleviate by confession her soul, which was oppressed with the impressions of the last few days. As he gazed at Valeria’s sunken visage, as he listened to her faint voice, Fabio himself approved of her plan: venerable Father Lorenzo might be able to give her useful advice, disperse her doubts…. Under the protection of four escorts, Valeria set out for the monastery, but Fabio remained at home; and while awaiting the return of his wife, he roamed about the garden, trying to understand what had happened to her, and feeling the unremitting terror and wrath and pain of indefinite suspicions…. More than once he entered the pavilion; but Muzio had not returned, and the Malay stared at Fabio like a statue, with an obsequious inclination of his head, and a far-away grin–at least, so it seemed to Fabio–a far-away grin on his bronze countenance.