She did not
appeal to his heart of hearts; she was a coquette. Pobloff sighed. He
was midway in his mortal life, a dangerous period for susceptible
manhood. He lifted moist eyes to the stars; the night was delicious. He
rested upon a cushioned couch of stone. About him the moonlight painted
the trees, until they seemed like liquefied ermine; the palace arose in
pyramidal surges of marble to the sky, meeting the moonbeams as if in
friendly defiance, and casting them back to heaven with triumphant
reflections. And the stillness, profound as the tomb, was punctuated by
glancing fireflies. Pobloff hummed melodiously.
"A night to make music," whispered a deep, sweet voice. Before he could
rise, his heart bounding as if stung to its centre, a woman, swathed in
white, sat beside him, touched him, put such a pressure upon his
shoulder that his blood began to stir. It was she. He stumbled in his
speech. She laughed, and he ground his teeth, for this alone saved him
from foolishness, from mad behaviour.
"Maestro--you could make music this lovely night?" Pobloff started.
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