ing glance over the fields and the whole surroundings, especially in the streamlet nearby.
The sky was limpid blue and very clear, and the air was cool.
The dew was yet fresh on the green grass, shining like pearls as the sun shone over it and the whole flashed like beads of precious stones—here ruby and there emerald or sapphire. O what a confusion of hues bright and blinding! Ay, what dazzling beauty and charm living there in the prismatic colors in all dewdrops upon those million blades of grass!
As he approached, he saw none. He sat there with folded arms, waiting and wistful. All was silent like the grave, except the audible murmur of the stream. Stillness was weird.
It was already eight o'clock and Rosa had not yet appeared.
And the hours wore on.
Indeed time passes so tediously to those who wait and expect nothing for Lucio became rather impatient until his heart beat low. It is the person who waits and not the one waited who becomes impatient, as the native saying goes.
But there was heard over there—a very soft sound flapping, and then a distinct form approaching—she the rose of his dreams coming—coming towards him, and what is more, to say "yes" or "no," as the case may be, which would mean to him life or death. So his
