It was on the tenth of March, 186--, a memorable date in the lives of
the three persons concerned in this narrative. Cranbrook had just
finished a semi-aesthetic and semi-political letter to a transatlantic
journal, in which he figured twice a month as "our own correspondent."
It was already late in the night; but the excitement of writing had
made him abnormally wakeful, and knowing that it was of no use to go
to bed, he blew out his lamp, lit a cigar and walked out upon the
_loggia_. There was a warm and fitful spring wind blowing, and the
unceasing rustling of the ilex leaves seemed cool and soothing to his
hot and overwrought senses. In the upper strata of the air, a stronger
gale was chasing dense masses and torn shreds of cloud with a fierce
speed before the lunar crescent; and the broad terrace beyond the
trees was alternately illuminated and plunged in gloom. In one of
these sudden illuminations, Cranbrook thought he saw a man leaning
against the marble balustrade; something appeared to be unwinding
itself slowly from his arms, and presently there stood a woman at his
side. Then the moon vanished behind a cloud, and all was darkness.
Cranbrook began to tremble; a strange numbness stole over him.
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