--See, we are yours!--the woman seemed to be saying mutely, while the animal, beginning to shiver, pressed close against her.--We are yours forever. We are here to serve you!
Heartrending was the sweetness of that November, smiling like a sick person who fancies himself to have reached a state of convalescence and feels an unusual sense of relief and well-being, knowing not that his hour of agony draws near.
"What is the matter with you to-day, Fosca? What has happened to you? Why are you so distant to me? Speak! Tell me!"
Stelio had entered San Marco by chance, and had seen her there, leaning against the chapel-door that leads to the baptistry. She was alone, motionless, her face devoured by fever and by shadows, with terrified eyes fixed on the fearful figures of the mosaics that flamed in a yellow fire.
"Leave me here alone, I entreat you--I beg of you! I must be alone! I implore you!"
She turned as if to flee, but he detained her.
"But tell me! Speak at least one word that I may understand."
Still she sought to escape, and her movement expressed unspeakable anguish.
"I implore you! If you pity me, the only thing you can do for me now is to let me go."
"But one word--at least one word, so that I shall understand."
A flash of fury passed over the agitated face.
Her voice was as hard as her glance. She turned, taking a step or two like a person overcome by dizziness seeking some support.
But he dared not detain her longer. He saw the despairing one walk through the zone of sunlight that invaded the basilica like a rushing torrent entering through a door opened by an unknown hand. Behind her the deep golden cavern, with its apostles, martyrs, and sacred beasts, glittered as if the thousand torches of the daylight were pouring in on it.
"I am lost in the depths of sadness.... This violent impulse to revolt against fate, to rush away in search of adventure--to seek.--Who will save my hope? Whence will come a ray of light?... To sing, to sing! But I would sing a song of life at last.... Can you tell me where the Lord of the Flame is at present?"
These words, in a letter from Donatella Arvale, were branded on her eyes and on her soul, with all the characteristics of handwriting, as much alive as the hand that traced them, as throbbing as that impatient pulse. She saw them graved on the stones, outlined on the clouds, reflected in the water, indelible and inevitable as the decrees of Fate.