nly.

He felt that she was accusing him. His face grew ashy white, and
grave--almost grand, she thought afterwards, for she remembered long the
look he wore. His answer came slowly in deep, vibrating tones.

"I have done nothing--but love her."

"Show her to me--take me to her," said Beatrice, still dreading some
horrible deed, she scarcely knew why.

"She is here."

"Where?"

"Here!--Ah, Christ."

His great hands went out madly as though to take her, then tenderly
touched the loose sleeves she wore, then fell, as though lifeless, to
his sides again.

Beatrice passed her hand over her eyes and drew back quickly a step. She
was startled and angered, but not frightened. It was almost the
repetition of the waking dream that had flitted through her brain before
she had landed. She had heard the grand ring of passionate love this
once at least--and how? In the voice of a common sailor--out of the
heart of an ignorant fellow who could neither read nor write, nor speak
his own language, a churl, a peasant's son, a labourer--but a man, at
least. That was it--a strong, honest, fearless man. That was why it all
moved her so--that was why it was not an insult that this low-born
fellow should dare to tell her he loved her. She opened her lids again
and saw his great figure leaning back against the rock, his white face
turned upward, his eyes half closed. She went near to him again.
Instantly, he made an effort and stood upright. Her instinct told her
that he wanted neither pity nor forgiveness nor comfort.

"You are a brave, strong man, Ruggiero; I will always pray that you may
love some one who will love you again--since you can love so well."

The unspoiled girl's nature had found the right expression, and the only
one. Ruggiero looked at her one moment, stooped and touched the hem of
her white frock with two fingers and then pressed them silently to his
lips. Who knows from what far age that outward act of submission and
vassalage has been handed down in southern lands? There it is to this
day, rarely seen, but still surviving and still known to all.

Then Ruggiero turned away and went up the sloping rocks again, and
Beatrice stood still for a moment, watching his tall, retreating figure.
She meant to go, too, but she lingered a while, knowing that if ever she
came back to Tragara, this would be the spot where she would pause and
recall a memory, and not that other, where she had sat while San Miniato
played out hi