The Hound of Florence by Felix Salten

. . . but once . . . no, it was not good . . . I had someone with me, and then he left me alone . . . that was not good. . . .”
    And shaking herself, she gave a soft low laugh. “So you have come all that way? I have come a long way too,” she proceeded without waiting for a reply, “a very long way. . . . I was in Lugano . . . and then over there . . . somewhere quite different . . . Venice. . . . I have been everywhere. . . .”
    And she leaned against his shoulder. “But you will stay with me now, won’t you?”
    â€œAlways,” replied Lucas.
    â€œTomorrow too?”
    â€œTomorrow . . . ?” His voice faltered. “Tomorrow I must go down there . . . into the . . . there’s a town down there in the valley. . . .”
    â€œI’ll go with you.”
    â€œImpossible. . . .” He could hardly speak. “You mustn’t come with me. . . . But the day after tomorrow I shall be free . . . and then we can meet again and keep together.”
    â€œWhere?” she asked, in eager, incredulous tones, looking sadly at him.
    â€œJust you say where,” he entreated, “just tell me the exact spot and I’ll be there, Angelica—I swear to you I’ll be there. . . .”
    â€œWell . . . in Rovereto . . . in front of the church.”
    â€œVery good, in Rovereto; but you must wait until I come.”
    â€œAnd you swear . . . ?”
    â€œI swear. . . . But you swear too that you will wait.”
    She drew him to her and kissed him, and Lucas took her in his arms. He forgot the spell under which he was living, he forgot the time, the hours sped by, and he took no count of them.
    Somewhere in the distance a church clock struck the hour of midnight. But Lucas did not hear it. All he knew was that a violent shock snatched him from Angelica’s arms. He was utterly dazed and it was only later that he remembered the girl’s horror when she suddenly found she was clasping nothing.
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    A few days later, Lucas, all aglow in the rays of the early morning sun, was standing on the last slope of the mountains. In the invisible depths of the valley at his feet the Adige went roaring on its way. He knew the river well, for had he not been following its winding course through wild gorges southward for the last week? Hidden by a mountain peak, it was close at hand, imprisoned in a rocky defile. He could hear it roaring and foaming, although from where he was standing, he could not see its final fight for freedom. But far away below, the spot where it entered the plain was visible. Still rushing and turbulent it spread in a broad stream over the land, but far away in the distance its waters became blue as the infinite heavens spreading above it.
    Lucas stood on his hill, as though he were at the top of a tower. The valley lay peacefully spread out at his feet. He scanned it, drunk with joy—the soft pale-green fields, slashed here and there by white streaks of road, the gleaming silver inlay of the rushing streams, the whole shimmering and smiling brightly amid straggling homesteads and towns.
    Immediately below, at no very great distance from the hills, and on the fringe of the plain which stretched as far as eye could see, gleamed the walls, roofs and towers of the city of Verona. Lucas felt as though he had but to spread his wings to float down to it. Never, during the whole of his journey, had he been filled with such impatience as he felt now. Down below there must surely be painters, sculptors and goldsmiths—men who would know all about Florence, about the masters who worked there and taught their craft, or about other places on Italian soil where such men could be found.
    Close at hand, a little below the turf-clad hill on which he was sitting, he caught