he sun, through emerald meadows.

And now the exciting moment of the ribbons is come--the moment
when the best presents are to be produced--the ribbons--a sheaf of
rainbow-colors, fastened into a strong golden ring, which ring is to
be held by a single lady, each gentleman grasping (as best he can) a
single ribbon. As long as the lady seated on the chair in the centre
pleases, the gentlemen are to gyrate round her. When she drops the
ring holding the sheaf of ribbons, the Cavaliere Trenta is to clap his
hands, and each gentleman is instantly to select that lady who wears
a rosette corresponding in color to his ribbon--the lady in the chair
being claimed by her partner.

Nobili has placed Nera Boccarini on the chair in the centre. (Ever
since the flavor of that fervid kiss has rested on his lips, Nobili
has been lost in a delicious dream. "Why should not he and Nera
dance on--on--on--forever?--Into indefinite space, if possible--only
together?" He asks himself this question vaguely, as she rests within
his arms--as he drinks in the subtile perfume of the red roses bound
in her glossy hair.)

Nera is triumphant. Nobili is her own! As she sits in that chair
when he has placed her, she is positively radiant. Love has given
an unknown tenderness to her eyes, a more delicate brilliancy to her
cheeks, a softness, almost a languor, to her movements. (Look out,
acknowledged _belle_ of Lucca--look out, Teresa Ottolini--here is
a dangerous rival to your supremacy! If Nobili loves Nera as Nera
believes he does--Nera will ripen quickly into yet more transcendent
beauty.)

Now Nobili has left Nera, seated in the chair. He is distributing
the various ribbons among the dancers. As there are over a hundred
couples, and there is some murmuring and struggling to secure certain
ladies, who match certain ribbons, this is difficult, and takes time.
See--it is done; again Nobili retires behind Nera's chair, to wait the
moment when he shall claim her himself.

How the men drag at the ribbons, whirling round and round,
hand-in-hand!--Nera's small hand can scarcely hold them--the men
whirling round every instant faster--tumbling over each other, indeed;
each moment the ribbons are dragged harder. Nera laughs; she sways
from side to side, her arms extended. Faster and more furiously the
men whirl round--like runaway horses now, bearing dead upon the reins.
The strain is too great, Nera lets fall the ring. The cavaliere claps
his hands. Eac