ext day before
sunrise--so taught the mysteries of ancient horticulture--the flowers
must be planted, so that the first sunlight which shone upon them in
the new soil should be that of the fresh morning. The young Goth waited
impatiently in the narrow chamber for the hour at which Valeria would
be able to leave her father after their evening meal.

He drew aside the curtain which covered the window and again and again
looked up at the sky, measuring the flight of time by the rising of the
stars and the progress of the moon. The large garden before him lay
bathed in its peaceful light.

In the distance, the plashing of a fountain could be heard, and the
cicadas chirped in the myrtles. The warm south wind blew sultry through
the night, at times bearing clouds of sweet odour upon its wings; and,
from the blooming grove at the end of the garden, the clear song of the
nightingale filled the air with melody.

At last Totila could wait no longer. He swung himself noiselessly over
the marble sill of the window; the white sand of the narrow path
scarcely grated beneath his rapid footsteps, as, avoiding the stream of
moonlight, he hurried along under the shrubbery.

On past the dark taxus-trees and the thick olive-groves; past the tall
statue of Flora, whose white marble shone ghostly in the moonlight;
past the large basin, where six marble dolphins spouted water high into
the air; into the thick shrubbery of laurels and tamarinds, and,
pressing through the oleanders, he stood before the stalactite grotto,
in which a marble nymph of the spring leaned upon a large dark urn. As
he entered, a white figure glided from behind the statue.

"Valeria, my lovely rose!" cried Totila, ardently embracing her.

"Leave me, leave me, my beloved!" she said, withdrawing from his arms.

"No, sweet one! I will not leave you. How long, how painfully, I have
missed you! Do you hear how sweetly and invitingly the nightingale
calls? Inhale the warm air of the summer night and the intoxicating
scent of the roses. All breathes joy and love! Oh, let us hold fast
these golden hours! My soul cannot contain all its bliss! All thy
beauty; all our youth; and this glowing, blooming summer night. Life
rolls in mighty waves through my heart, and bursts it with delight!"

"Oh, Totila, I would gladly lose myself, like you, in the happiness of
these hours! But I cannot. The intoxicating perfume, the luxurious
warmth of these summer nights are but transient;