They had dined, and the letter was written. A week-old moon shone in the placid heaven; the tender night-stillness had descended upon the always quiet town; lights twinkled gaily from the casements of surrounding villas; like a string of jewels gleamed the lamps of the empty High-street. The slow river wound his sinuous course between the rushes and the willows with scarce a ripple. No sweeter air could have breathed among the leaves, no calmer sky could have o’er-canopied this earth on that night in Verona when young Romeo stole into Capulet’s garden under the midnight stars. It was a night made for lovers. The clock struck the half hour after nine as Geoffrey left the hotel, with his frie…
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