Again, on the 23rd of August, the whole Engadine was encompassed and surrounded by rain, not one of those rough, short showers of the high mountains, which pass from valley to valley like a seething whirlwind, and leave the sky cleansed and serene where they have passed, while the sky they overtake becomes cloudy and obscured; but it was a soft, close, continuous, almost tireless rain. The rain fell upon the ground indefatigably, and impregnated it with profound damp and pungent freshness; it fell on the waters of the lake, from the great lake of Sils to the melancholy little lake of Statz, imprinting on them thousands of little circles, thousands of little ripples; it fell upon the leaves of the trees, the meadow grass, the last flowers of the Alpine summer, and leaves and grass became lucid with a new and intense green, and the flowers became brighter. It fell on roofs and verandahs, on villages and countryside, and cleaned and clothed them with a bright mist, renovating the air and ever purifying it. At windows and balconies, at the glass doors of the hotel vestibules, on that rainy morning there waited for some time all those who in the Engadine go out every morning, sooner or later, many longing for the fresh, free air, many for amusements and diversion, while others were sighing for the usual meetings, of accident or design, for adventures begun or about to begin. Each as he watched the sky and the horizon waited for the rain to tire, diminish, and cease; but the rain seemed even more regular and tranquil, as it fell methodically and monotonously in an immense veil of light grey that held the whole Engadine.

Then men, women, and children who were unwilling to renounce the open air, their distractions and meetings, gradually vanished from window, balcony, and the glass doors of vestibules, and by degrees the roads of St. Moritz Bad, which had been deserted for one or two hours, began to be filled with people sallying forth from the hotels, dÉpendances, pensions, and villas, who descended on tram and foot from St. Moritz Dorf to the Bad in search of life, movement, and people. But beneath the fine downpour, and through the continuous silvery drops, people were of another colour and assumed other lines. All the white dresses of the women were changed to black, dark grey, and blue, and all the white, transparent blouses had vanished, or were hidden beneath woollen jackets, closely buttoned at the bosom, with collars raised; and skirts were shorter than ever, showing the feet to the calf, shod in strong boots with short nails. In place of white, blue, or pink veils, that formed a cloud round hats and faces, were substituted dark veils which surrounded hat and face tightly. All the variegated summer suits of the men had vanished, with straw and panama hats, and all were dressed gloomily in black overcoats; the Germans especially had drawn on their ulsters, cut as it were with an axe, like the side of a chest of drawers, with a belt behind held fast by a huge button. But beneath the incessant rain all seemed another people, with other faces and bodies, with other gestures and movements. All went with rapid steps, without stopping, along the beautiful clear roads of the Bad, amidst the gardens full of trees and the public park, only slowing their steps beneath the famous porticoes of the Bad. Nearly all came and went to and from the great wooden promenoir, where is the Serpentquelle, a new spring, to and from the galÉrie de bois, which is the meeting-place of meeting-places when it does not rain—but there is no promenading when it rains—while in the background the orchestra plays the more passionate airs from Carmen, and the more penetrating from Manon, and on the other side the ladies pretend to drink the waters while they walk up and down and flirt. That morning the promenoir is all humid with the rain, and there is a light vapour and steam in the air; but the meetings, the distractions, adventures even, beneath the rain, developed themselves, while the notes of AÏda caused Italian hearts to beat.

In the afternoon, as the rain continued, a different way of using the time was organised. In the vestibule of the HÔtel du Lac was hung a notice, on which was written "Kinderballet," that is to say, a children's dance, the celebrated, pretty dance for children which takes place at that hotel on a wet day. At the "Stahlbad" Frau Mentzel invited, through the telephone, fifty people to tea, when in the salon there were already fifty people belonging to the same hotel. At St. Moritz Dorf, at the "Palace," twenty bridge tables were set, instead of the usual eight; at the "Kulm" a billiard match was started. Everywhere ping-pong tables were set up for boys and girls, everywhere the reading-rooms overflowed with people, and as an exception each took tea in his own hotel. Towards six the rain began to diminish, at half-past six it rained no more; so nearly all the men went forth for a quarter of an hour or five minutes for a breather, as they said, or to buy a paper and flowers. All breathed a very fresh air, and he who tarried found it very cold. At eight in the evening in all the hotels, as the ladies came down to dinner in low dresses, the large fireplaces had been lit; on entering their rooms at midnight they found their fires lit, and the stoves roaring with heat. The thermometer had descended rapidly to one degree below zero. Next morning the whole Engadine was covered with snow; it had snowed for five or six hours during the night.

As from his windows he watched the landscape become white with a wintry aspect, but without any of the cruel sadness of a winter day, with a slight whiteness in which he perceived grass and earth, with a whiteness almost ready to melt and vanish, Lucio Sabini moved impatiently. He opened the windows to see better, and leant out. He perceived that on the roads the snow had already vanished, but that the woods and meadows were still covered with it, and that the mountains around were covered with snow right to their base.

"But the roads are free," he said to himself, striving to conquer his impatience.

Impatience, uncertainty, and irritation disturbed him, as he dressed rapidly, glancing now and then at his watch. During the night he had slept little and badly, owing to a dull restlessness which he attributed to the idea of having to rise early that morning for the excursion with Lilian Temple and Miss May Ford to the Bernina Pass. He had slept little and badly, perhaps because his heart, nerves, and senses were overflowing with life, in a fullness that was sometimes too tumultuous, which he strove in vain to repress and hide. In the presence of the snow that had rendered white and cold all the landscape of mountains and woods, of meadows and houses, the fear lest that expected, desired, invoked excursion, that excursion which was perhaps to be the most beautiful and exalted of that month of love, could no longer take place, suddenly conquered him and bore him down, like a child who has had what he most desired snatched away from him.

"They will not go," he said to himself, as he finished dressing.

And the day that was a mistake and a failure oppressed him with the weight of a mortal sadness. The carriage which was to take them to the Bernina Pass ought already to be in front of the "Kulm," according to the instructions he had given the driver. Already he should have walked the short stretch from his "Caspar Badrutt" to the "Kulm." But with all the snow on the mountains and the woods and meadows perhaps even the coachman had considered the excursion postponed.

"Postponed—till when? The month is ending," thought Lucio Sabini to himself bitterly.

At eight in the morning it was very silent at his hotel; most of the early risers, perhaps, having seen the snow, had remained in bed. He went into the long corridor, where at the end was the telephone; he asked for and obtained communication with the HÔtel Kulm, and begged that they would ask if the Misses Temple and Ford still decided to go to the Bernina. He waited at the telephone, pale, with his eyes a little swollen from want of sleep, chewing the end of a cigarette which had gone out. Suddenly the "Kulm" telephone rang, and told him that Miss Temple was at the telephone. He strove to restrain himself, and said quietly from the telephone:

"Good day, Miss Temple; look at the snow."

"Very beautiful indeed," replied a fresh, sweet voice from the telephone.

"Aren't you afraid? Are we still going to the Bernina?" he exclaimed, with a trembling of the voice which he could not conquer.

"Yes, we are still going," she replied, in a secure and tranquil voice.

"Can I come, then?"

"Of course; au revoir."

He crossed the silent, deserted little streets of the Dorf in a great hurry; the shops were scarcely opening their doors; the window-panes were dim, and behind the window cases the shutters were still barred. At the hotel doors the little chasseurs, in dark green uniform, were beating their feet against the road. Not a soul was going up or coming down; not a soul was on the square before the "Kulm"; but, faithful to orders, the coachman was there with his carriage, only he was wrapped up in a heavy cloak, and had placed rugs over his two fat, strong horses, so that they should not catch cold while he waited. Now and then the horses shook their heads, causing all their bells to tinkle. The air was calm and equable, but very cold. Lucio Sabini entered the vestibule, and found himself in the large Egyptian hall, where there was not a soul; after a moment he saw Lilian Temple coming towards him. The dear girl was dressed in a short dress of black cloth, with a short, pleated skirt. She wore a close-fitting jacket of otter-skin, buttoned up closely, brightened by a cravat of white lace; she had on a little black hat, with a white lace veil fitting closely over the rosy face and blond hair. Like a boy of eighteen in love, Lucio Sabini found her more beautiful than ever. On her arm she carried a heavy cloak and a carriage-rug, which she placed on a chair to give her hand to Lucio.

"The carriage is waiting," he murmured vaguely, in the first moment of happy confusion which Lilian's presence always caused him.

"I heard the bells," she murmured, equally confused, showing her confusion more than he.

"It is very cold."

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it doesn't matter," he consented, speaking as if in a dream.

There was a silence between them: a silence full of things.

"Isn't Miss Ford ready yet?" he asked, to break the silence.

"She isn't coming to the Bernina," replied Lilian simply.

"Not coming?" asked Lucio, startled and disturbed.

"She is no longer so young. She suffers from rheumatism, and it is very cold," said Lilian sweetly.

Again he experienced a moment of atrocious doubt, and was atrociously oppressed by the thought of the excursion postponed, of the day missed.

"And are we to go alone?" he asked, hesitating, and fearing the reply.

"We two are going alone," replied Lilian serenely.

It was impossible for him, a man over whom so many intoxicating and terrible emotions had passed, to dominate the pallor which disturbed his face, and the blush that afterwards suffused it. He could say nothing for the interior tumult of his being. She, still serene, added:

"Dear May wishes me to leave a note to tell her what time we shall probably return. At what time shall we return, Signor Sabini?"

"At six, I think; not before," he stammered.

"The whole day, then," replied the girl. She went to a table and wrote a note on a leaf from her pocket-book, enclosed it in an envelope, and gave it to a servant. Then her periwinkle-blue eyes invited Lucio to follow her to the stairs which descended to the vestibule; a little chasseur came after them, carrying the wraps and the rug. Agilely Lilian climbed up with a spring, Lucio placed himself beside her, the chasseur spread the rug over their knees and settled the wraps. The coachman, too, wrapped his feet and body in a covering as far as his chest, and cracked his whip; the bells tinkled, the carriage started along the silent road that crosses the Dorf and inclines towards the wood on the hill of CharnadÜras, and set off at a trot into the silent country, all white with snow.

As a reaction to his immense emotion of a few moments ago, Lucio Sabini was invaded by a wave of cynicism. So this beautiful girl with whom he was in love, and who was in love with him, was left in his power, she was given to him for a whole day without hardly anyone knowing where they had gone; alone for a whole day, scarcely being asked, and that by chance, the hour of return, perhaps merely to fix the dinner-hour; and Miss May Ford was doing this, Lilian Temple's only guardian, she to whom her father had entrusted her as a second mother. But were these Englishwomen, young and old, stupid and fools, or corrupt? And did they think him an idiot or a saint? Why was the girl entrusted to him, to whom he had been making love for three weeks? So that he should compromise her, perhaps, and be forced to marry her? What a stupid joke to play on an experienced man like him; there was not a Miss Ford in the land of Albion, or any other land, who could have managed him! And was Lilian Temple unaware—an idiot, an accomplice? An accomplice? Frowning and stern, he bit his lips beneath his moustaches. The carriage crossed the great Valley of Samaden, where the snow covered the Corvatsch and the Muotta to their bases, and extended in white flutings over the expanses of the meadows.

"What is the matter?" Lilian suddenly asked, after too long a silence.

At first she looked at him timidly, then more frankly. And he saw in her face an expression he had never noticed before.

"I am tired," he replied coldly.

"Tired?"

"I slept badly and little," he replied dully, frowning.

"But why?"

"I don't know, I can't tell you, Miss Temple," he concluded, turning his head away to avoid her glance.

"Then," she said quietly, "this excursion must bore you a lot."

"Oh!" he exclaimed ambiguously.

"Let us turn back," she proposed, simply and sincerely.

"Turn back? Turn back?"

"Certainly. We will go another day to the Bernina. It is very far, and you are so tired."

He looked into her eyes and listened to every inflection of her voice; but he discovered nothing but naturalness, loyalty, and candour.

"Would you turn back, Miss Temple? Would you give up the outing?"

"Certainly, to let you rest to-day, and see you this evening charming and happy."

"For me, Lilian?"

"For you, dear," she replied, with a tremble of affection. All Lucio Sabini's heart broke in tenderness: all the gall of cynicism, all the poison of corruption was conquered and destroyed. She could not understand how base had been his thoughts and how he repented of having yielded to such base thoughts: Lilian could not have understood one of those infamous ideas. She noticed that he was bending over her to speak to her in his Italian tongue which she only half understood, which he adopted so spontaneously in moments of abandonment and sentimental dedication.

"Povero caro amor mio ... tanto caro."

"What are you saying?" she asked, a little anxiously.

"Beautiful things, things of love," he replied, enchanted, gazing at her.

"I don't want to lose them; say them in English, or French. I don't understand everything in Italian," she murmured with a gracious pout of disdain.

"Why don't you understand Italian, little Lilian? You are wrong: you should understand."

"I am going to learn this Italian," she declared promptly.

"When?" he asked, fascinated.

"In a little while, in the autumn, when I am in England," she said decisively, in a low voice. Her little gloved hand lay upon the rug: he took it and interlaced her fingers softly in his own.

"The days are so long in autumn and winter in my country," she said dreamily.

He was silent beneath her enchantment, as he pressed her hand.

"I want to write to you for Christmas," she added, her large blue eyes full of visions, "a nice little letter all in Italian, dear."

"But first," he asked, enamoured and impatient, "you will write me nice long letters in French or English?"

"Why, of course, always," she replied, with that certainty which now and then smote him and disturbed him, afterwards to conquer him.

In her certainty Lilian did not ask him if he would always reply; as if it were unnecessary to ask anything so certain and evident, as if words served not to declare and promise a certainty.

"Do you mean to say," he resumed, with an emotion that veiled each accent, "do you mean to say, that that angel Lilian Temple is a little fond of Lucio Sabini, who deserves it not?"

"I do mean to say so," she affirmed, simply and loyally.

Nor did Lilian Temple ask Lucio Sabini, in return, if he loved her a little, as if she were unshaken in her conviction that Lucio was fond of her; and to hear so once again were unnecessary. Once again Lilian's high loyalty, her deep faith, her absolute trust, which never having lied could not suppose a lie, moved Lucio to his depths. He felt himself, as in the most impassioned moments of his love, another man, transformed and remade, incapable of deceit, incapable of fraud; he felt himself, like the girl, vibrating with sincerity and worthy of the faith she had in him, since he was, as she was, sustained by an immense certainty. The more tremulous became his sensibility, the more fluid his tenderness, the more impetuous his need of offering his all, of giving himself completely.

"I am yours," he said solemnly in English.

"I am yours," she replied simply.

"Everything is so white here," she said, "ever so much whiter than down below."

She pointed with a vague gesture of the hand to the districts they had left behind, to St. Moritz, Celerina, Pontresina, where the snow of the night was already disappearing, while on the Bernina road they were traversing, rather slowly, ever climbing to the regular pace of the horses and the feeble tinkling of the bells, the night's snow still remained intact. The snow covered in great tracts of whiteness the last solitary meadows which hid the banks of rocks that the winter avalanches had precipitated in the silent valleys; it covered in tracts the first hills that ascended towards the loftier mountains, and united on high the August snow with the many ancient snows of so many winters which the summer's sun had been unable to melt, and, finally, last night's snow had placed a new splendour over the glaciers. As Lilian and Lucio went on their way in the grand Alpine solitude, the whiteness increased around them; in the rarefied air the breath that escaped from the horses' nostrils seemed a light smoke which hovered about them.

"Oh, how everything becomes whiter," Lilian repeated, conquered by the spectacle, "nothing is more beautiful than all this whiteness."

"The snow resembles you rather," murmured Lucio, looking at her and not at the landscape.

She shook her blond head, a shadow of a smile playing on her lips.

"Snow is destroyed in the countries where men live," she added, "but it remains pure and intact on high."

"Like it, you are pure," he whispered, as he gazed again at her, enamoured.

Now and then she flushed beneath the ardour of his glance; the blood rushed to the roots of her blond tresses, a tender smile played about the beautiful, chaste mouth.

"They gave you such a beautiful name—Lilian," he told her again, with ardent sweetness.

"Do you really like it?"

"How is it you were given such a beautiful name—Lilian—Lilian?"

"It is an ordinary name in my country, in England," she replied, speaking dreamily.

"It is the name of a flower."

"A great many names of flowers are used for children in my country, in England—Rose, Daisy, Violet. My mother was called Violet—Violet Temple."

"But your name, the lily, is the name of an Italian flower—one of our flowers, dear."

"I know that," she added thoughtfully, "it is the emblem of Florence, your Florence."

"If it is mine, it is also your Florence," he exclaimed, enamoured.

"Is everything you love and prefer also mine, dear?" she asked, fixing him with her large eyes, so blue and loyal.

"Everything," he exclaimed, with a burning glance.

She paled, and the little hand that was in Lucio's shook convulsively. A short, intense giddiness overwhelmed them, and they looked at each other, frightened and lost. The carriage still proceeded slowly; it had skirted the whole of the glacier of Morteratsch, afterwards leaving it on the right, still ascending among the lofty, fearful peaks of the Tschierva, the Bellavista, Crast' AgÜzza, and lording it in their midst in an indescribable purity, was the sovereign of the mountains, the virgin of the mountains, the lofty and tremendous Bernina. On the left, instead, valleys opened, surrounded by mountains less lofty, with broad meadows still full green; at a gap in one of these, all flourishing with vegetation, like an oasis confronting the terrible chain of the Bernina, a country girl came towards them, offering flowers. To conquer the agitation that kept dominating him, Lucio made the carriage stop. Buxom and blond and rosy, the country girl offered bunches of fresh flowers which she had gathered an hour ago, bunches of dark blue and purple gentians, masses of Alpine orchids of a tender pink with dark markings, and fresh edelweiss, still almost bathed in snow.

"Here, Lilian," he resumed in a still agitated voice, "is a valley full of flowers, the Valley of Fieno, but it is too far-away; here are its flowers."

And he took them all from the hands and arms of the peasant girl and emptied them in Lilian's hands; the rug and the whole carriage were covered with flowers, and smiling, the peasant girl bade them adieu as she jingled the money in her rough hand. Lilian pressed the flowers to her, smelt them, and buried her face in them in her usual gentle way, while the carriage resumed, more quickly, its way towards the lofty Bernina Pass.

"You have been on other occasions to the Bernina?" she asked, in a low voice.

"Yes, several times: I have been everywhere."

"Also in this valley that you say is full of flowers?"

"Yes, dear Lilian."

"And you have given these beautiful flowers to many other women, haven't you?" she continued, looking at him, with a shade of melancholy in her glance.

"What does it matter?" he exclaimed, with a vivacious nod, as if to abolish the past.

"You have forgotten them all," she concluded, without looking at him, as if she were talking to herself.

"You are different, Lilian," he said.

She believed him at once and smiled at him, herself desirous of dispersing the cloud of sadness which had passed over their souls.

"Have you ever climbed to the top of one of those mountains? Have you climbed the Monte Bernina, dear? Tell me everything, please."

"I climbed two or three times, Lilian, when I was younger, bolder, and less lazy; not right to the Bernina, dear, but to the Diavolezza beneath the Bernina."

"Is it far and difficult or high? Can one get there? How I envy you! It must be so beautiful!"

"Beautiful and sad, Lilian—very sad. It is a landscape that dazes and contracts the heart. Up there one thinks of the many who at different times have attempted to climb ever higher and have perished, Lilian. Up there, too, it is such a strange country. Imagine amidst all the whiteness a mountain completely black, called Monte Perso, and there is also at its foot a glacier, the Perso glacier; and, strange to say, a great space of rocks and stones, all black, which cuts the glacier, the Isle of Perso—why, one knows not. I have told you all, Lilian."

"I should like to go there," she added, with all the strength of her race.

The air became colder, as they reached the goal. The whole region became more arid, and more outstanding in their majesty the lofty peaks of the PalÙ and the Cambrena, the one completely white, the other streaked with white and black in a peculiar palette of two colours—the black rock and white ice.

"Are you cold, dear?" he asked tenderly.

"Yes, a little cold; just a little."

"Let us get down, dear; we are almost there. We will walk to the Hospice along the lakes."

In helping her to descend he took her in his arms, like a child, to place her on the ground. Involuntarily he pressed her to himself for a moment; he saw her grow pale and he paled himself. He felt himself losing his self-control. As they walked he gave her his arm silently; the carriage drew away towards the Hospice of the Bernina, which could be seen, like a far-off grey point against the diverse brightness of the lakes. They skirted the motionless waters of the first lake; around its shores were neither trees, nor plants, nor flowers, nor grass. There were only stones, blackish or yellowish earth, and as they extended their glance ahead other waters appeared, motionless, reflecting the whiteness of the Cambrena, and the brown fillets of rocks which cut the glacier—the deep black water of the Lago Nero, the quite clear water of the Lago Bianco—while only a tongue of brown earth separated the dark waters from the clear; but there were no trees, nor flowers, nor grass. Silently the two walked on; she now and then oppressed by her vast surroundings, so strange and lifeless. He pressed her closer to him as he led and supported her, now and then murmuring, as in an amorous refrain:

"Dear, dear Lilian, dear."

On the way they were pursuing, some carriages overtook them, going towards the Hospice. Besides travellers, wrapped in heavy wraps, and women in furs, the carriages were loaded with baggage.

"They are descending to Italy," murmured Lucio.

"I envy them," she said, as if to herself.

"You ought not to envy anyone, dear," he repeated ardently. "Wherever Lilian is, there is the country; because there is love."

Like music, now tender and now violent, his words, even vague, even imprecise, even indefinite to the questions she often asked him, were like the music of softness and passion; his words caressed her with a fresh breeze or ate into her heart like tongues of flame. For a moment she closed her eyes and forgot that she had received no reply to her question; she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be destroyed by that flame.

People were coming and going before the Hospice; the horses had been taken out of three or four carriages to be fed and watered before resuming the journey to Italy; also there were carts and carters. Everyone, travellers, coachmen, carters, and hotel servants, were in winter costume, and stamping their feet on the ground against the cold. The deep grey of the hotel, which had been a Hospice for travellers, and the brown, clear waters of the motionless lakes beneath the snows and glaciers of the Cambrena, the Carale, the Sassal Masone, and, further away, the yoke of the Bernina, behind which the road descended suddenly to Italy—all had the cold and sad aspect of a winter landscape in the high mountains, without a tree or flower.

"Would you stay a month here with me?" Lucio asked Lilian at the door of the hotel.

"Yes, certainly," she replied at once, with that peculiar certainty of hers.

"Let us pretend that it is the first day," he whispered into her ear, "that we are bridegroom and bride on our honeymoon."

Again she became pale; again he felt too strong an emotion preventing his self-control. Profoundly disturbed they passed along the narrow, almost gloomy corridor which divided the rooms of the Hospice, and penetrated the little reading-room, which they found invaded by a little caravan of Germans, men and women, while the room was full of smoke from the pipes the men were smoking. To avoid all this they went into the vast dining-room, and around them hovered a waiter and waitress, to ask if they were staying for the afternoon, the night, or a week. Lucio only replied now and then with a vague smile, holding Lilian's hand in his, more than ever enamoured, like a bridegroom. She was silent and absorbed; the waiter and the waitress left them by one of the windows of the room, where already those who wanted luncheon were arriving. Behind the panes Lilian and Lucio exchanged some rare words of childish, sentimental intimacy, rather vibrant, and pronounced softly, with an indescribable accent, and they gazed at, perhaps without seeing, the lofty Cambrena, black with rocks and white with ice, and the four little lakes which almost seemed to advance from the back of the valley and surround the grey Hospice, with their waters of such strangely different hues.

"Are you still cold, adored little Lilian?"

"No, not any longer, dear; and you?"

"I? I am on fire, dear, sweet Lily."

"Do you find all this too sad? I believe you do not like anything sad."

"I have no eyes for sadness, Lilian, when I am with you."

Now, like children in love, they wandered from room to room, finding nearly all the doors wide open. Within the beds were made and covered with dark quilts; everything was orderly, but empty and inanimate. Only in one room, as they looked from the threshold, they saw clothes thrown on to chairs, books upon a writing-table, and fresh flowers in vases. They withdrew smiling, afraid of being caught. The waiter who, as he came and went, met them now and then in their little pilgrimage, explained to them that since the Hospice had become an hotel, every summer season people passed a week there or a fortnight; even that year there had been many till a few days ago, but with the rain and snow of the last two days many had left for Switzerland and Italy. Now only a few still remained; but at the Hospice of the Bernina most people passed through, travellers who were going to Vallettina or Switzerland, and who all stopped for two or three hours to change horses and have luncheon.

"On some days, when it is a good season, we have a hundred to lunch," concluded the waiter, with importance.

"And to-day?" asked Lucio.

"Oh, nothing, just twenty."

"Are you hungry, Lilian?" asked Lucio, smiling at her.

"Yes; I shall be glad of lunch."

"Let us go, dear, and choose our table; we will place our flowers there."

They chose one in a remote corner of the vast dining-room, and the banality of the table was adorned by the dark gentians, the spiked orchids, and the fresh edelweiss; like two children, looking around and fondling each other's hands, they filled a vase and two glasses with them. Lucio had the two places changed; instead of facing Lilian, he wished to have her beside him and while the waiter withdrew to serve their lunch, seated at the little table, they were alone like two lovers for the first time. Forgetful of everything except their love, they began to talk, turning one to the other, their faces close together, their words subdued, their smiles expressive and suggestive, their glances now laughing and now ardent; their hearts and fibres welled with the deep sweetness of the idyll and ardour of passion. In the dining-room, already more than twenty people were lunching and talking loudly, especially the German gathering; there was a noise of plates and knives, with a smell of food that was diffused in the rather heavy air of the room which was nearly always closed against the cold; but, isolated in their corner, Lilian and Lucio paid no heed to the others. Even they lunched: sometimes their idyll or passion guided their actions, now graciously puerile, now full of an unconquerable trembling, as with a smile and a glance, or a fleeting squeeze of the hand or gesture of tenderness, they lunched like a newly married couple on the first day of their marriage; the man seeking the woman's glass to place his lips where she had placed hers, the woman offering half the fruit which she had eaten, now and then forgetting to eat, to look and smile at each other, as the waiter came and went to and fro, silent, discreet, and indifferent, without attempting to recall them to reality.

At the other tables everyone had finished lunch; the Germans especially rose noisily, the men with their congested faces, the women wearing on their blond, yellowish hair the same masculine hats as their husbands and fathers; but Lucio and Lilian at their table, from which the things had been removed, allowed their coffee to grow cold in their cups, and absently they plucked off the petals of the Alpine orchids and edelweiss with their fingers and scattered them on the table in strange designs. They were now alone at the little table in the corner, and knew nothing of what was happening around them; only the silent, but questioning and respectful presence of the waiter made them rise, after Lucio had paid the bill.

"It will be very cold later for the return," said the waiter suggestively, as if he were inviting them to stay.

A single, intense glance between them told of what they were thinking. Agitatedly Lilian approached the window from which they had looked out without seeing the country; beside them, on a little table, a great book lay open, with white pages signed with signatures, mottoes, and dates, the album of the Bernina Hospice, wherein every passer-by placed his name. To hide her deep confusion, Lilian turned over some pages, stooping to read, almost without understanding, some unknown name, some words of admiration, remembrance, or regret of those who had crossed the Bernina Pass. Suddenly she perceived that Lucio was beside her, and that he, too, was reading; more agitated, she did not turn, as she tried to read more attentively, and together they read a sentence in French, with two signatures, "Vive l'amour.—Laure et Francis."

"Shall we write something, Lilian?" he whispered, with his arm around her waist.

"Yes," she murmured.

They bent over the book together: she wrote first, in French, in a rather trembling handwriting, "À toi, pour la vie, pour la mort.—Lilian." Promptly he wrote after her, in a firm, decisive handwriting, "À toi, pour la vie, pour la mort.—Lucio," and a date. Their glances repeated, affirmed, and swore what they had written, as they went out of the deserted dining-room into the narrow, semi-dark corridor, where there was no one. He kept her for a moment in the half-light; embracing her lightly, he drew her to him, and gave her a long kiss on the lips, a kiss of love, which she returned as well. He felt her reel as if lost; he, too, felt himself overcome with joy. With a supreme effort he took her hand, supported her, and led her away to the staircase of the Hospice, and outside into the full light and open air, where for a moment they stopped half blinded, without seeing anything, without looking at each other, without recognising each other, as if both were lost.

As if an indisputable need constrained them to fly from some unknown danger, they walked along the shores of the four little lakes, stopping to admire the waters. They proceeded to where the tail of the Cambrena glacier descends and winds, and they bent over the spring that gushes from it to bathe their hands, which were on fire; they went further, beyond the yoke and the Bernina Pass, following the carts and carriages which were in motion; they went by a long hill, whence they saw a flock of sheep, with their shepherd and guardian dog, proceeding with slow steps, occasionally halting, and then resuming their way; throughout the summer they had been in the Engadine, and now, driven away by the cold, were descending towards Italy, towards Poschiavo. They went forward themselves on the road to Italy, and saw the little village of La Rosa gleaming white below. They went everywhere, tiring their bodies and their souls.

As the day declined they returned to the door of the Hospice, but neither climbed the stairs again. They remained at the threshold, exchanging some glances full of a silent and immense sadness, but not a word opened their lips to say how immense was their grief. The carriage was ready, and the horses were tinkling their bells; the waiter came down, carrying rugs and cloaks and flowers. Lucio and Lilian jumped into the carriage to return to St. Moritz Dorf. Again they looked at the grey Hospice, which became gloomier in the declining day, in that obscure corner of the earth, amidst its four mysterious lakes, and an immense sadness bade farewell to that tarrying-place of an hour of love. Then they left in silence. Gloomy and stern, with hat almost lowered over his eyes, Lucio first became calm by degrees, while pale and sad, beneath her white veil, Lilian, too, grew calmer. Gradually a gentleness, ever softer and more persuasive, poured itself like balsam over their grief and regret. They drew near to each other, affectionately and simply; a tenderness united their hands and kept them joined, a tenderness flowed from their few words, in their voices, in their names pronounced now and then. A tenderness seized, kept, and dominated them on their return journey, amid the ever-increasing gloom of the twilight, and when they reached their goal, both were exalted by tenderness. But Lucio Sabini was also exalted by renunciation.