'I dreamed,' answered Muzzio, not taking his eyes off Valeria, 'I was entering a spacious apartment with a ceiling decorated in Oriental fashion, carved columns supported the roof, the walls were covered with tiles, and though there were neither windows nor lights, the whole room was filled with a rosy light, just as though it were all built of transparent stone. In the corners, Chinese censers were smoking, on the floor lay brocaded cushions along a narrow rug. I went in through a door covered with a curtain, and at another door just opposite appeared a woman whom I once loved. And so beautiful she seemed to me, that I was all aflame with my old love . . .'
Muzzio broke off significantly. Valeria sat motionless, and only gradually she turned white . . . and she drew her breath more slowly.
'Then,' continued Muzzio, 'I waked up and played that song.'
'But who was that woman?' said Fabio.
'Who was she? The wife of an Indian — I met her in the town of Delhi . . . She is not alive now — she died.'
'And her husband?' asked Fabio, not knowing why he asked the question.
'Her husband, too, they say is dead. I soon lost sight of them both.'
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