Singer and listeners seemed to be in an exquisite
isolation of moonlight and soft odours. Katherine murmured pensively
to herself:
"Where are the snows of yesterday?"
Her eyes were shining like summer stars, her parted lips made Villon
think of ripe pomegranates, her mind was wandering in the Islands of
the Blest with the lovers and ladies whom Villon had praised. Villon
dismissed melancholy with a jest:
"Sweet ladies," he said; "my song is sung. Do not let it dishearten
you, for, believe me, it will snow again next year and lie white and
light on the graves of dead lovers. Yesterday is dead, and to-morrow
comes never."
He drew very close to Katherine and whispered the end of his
sentence in her ear:
"Let us live and love to-day."
Katherine gave a little start as she dropped from cloudland and
looked at him. He drew back and turned to the others.
"Fair ladies," he said; "shall we go to the great hall where the
Italian players gambol?"
The women gathered about him, thanking him for his song, and then
fluttered away like brilliant birds, up the steps to the terrace. As
they did so a figure in a pilgrim's gown came from the scented gloom
of one of the rose alleys, paused for a moment as if undecided as to
his course, and then proceeded to cross the space of moonlit grass.
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