I knew no fear. My pulses throbbed and my heart beat ponderously but
rapturously as I watched the vision growing more and more distinct until I
could make out the pale face of ineffable sweetness and the veiled eyes.
It was the Blessed Madonna, as Messer Pordenone had painted her in the
Church of Santa Chiara at Piacenza; the dress, the lilies, the sweet pale
visage, all were known to me, even the billowing cloud upon which one
little naked foot was resting.
I cried out in longing and in rapture, and I held out my arms to that sweet
vision. But even as I did so its aspect gradually changed. Under the
upper part of the blue mantle, which formed a veil, was spread a mass of
ruddy, gleaming hair; the snowy pallor of the face was warmed to the tint
of ivory, and the lips deepened to scarlet and writhed in a voluptuous
smile; the dark eyes glowed languidly; the lilies faded away, and the pale
hands were held out to me.
"Giuliana!" I cried, and my pure and piously joyous ecstasy was changed
upon the instant to fierce, carnal longings.
"Giuliana!" I held out my arms, and slowly she floated towards me, over the
rough earthen floor of my cell.
A frenzy of craving seized me. I was impatient to lock my arms once more
about that fair sleek body. I sought to rise, to go to meet her slow
approach, to lessen by a second this agony of waiting.
Pages:
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278