She walked out on to the loggia.
Moonlight and stars in a soft purple sky. The walls of
Monteriano should be glorious on such a night as this. But
the house faced away from them.
Perfetta was banging in the kitchen, and the stairs down
led past the kitchen door. But the stairs up to the
attic--the stairs no one ever used--opened out of the
living-room, and by unlocking the door at the top one might
slip out to the square terrace above the house, and thus for
ten minutes walk in freedom and peace.
The key was in the pocket of Gino's best suit--the
English check--which he never wore. The stairs creaked and
the key-hole screamed; but Perfetta was growing deaf. The
walls were beautiful, but as they faced west they were in
shadow. To see the light upon them she must walk round the
town a little, till they were caught by the beams of the
rising moon. She looked anxiously at the house, and started.
It was easy walking, for a little path ran all outside
the ramparts. The few people she met wished her a civil
good-night, taking her, in her hatless condition, for a
peasant. The walls trended round towards the moon; and
presently she came into its light, and saw all the rough
towers turn into pillars of silver and black, and the
ramparts into cliffs of pearl. She had no great sense of
beauty, but she was sentimental, and she began to cry; for
here, where a great cypress interrupted the monotony of the
girdle of olives, she had sat with Gino one afternoon in
March, her head upon his shoulder, while Caroline was
looking at the view and sketching.
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