in the darkness. There was no
sensation of fear in her heart, only a passion of interest and an odd
feeling of triumph.

To dance with the Marchesino at the Scoglio di Frisio would have been
banal in comparison with this glorious progress through the night in the
teeth of opposing elements. She envied Gaspare, who was outside with
the sailors, and whose form she could dimly see, a blur against the
blackness. She longed to take off her smart little hat and her French
frock, and be outside too, in the wind and the rain.

"It is ridiculous to be dressed like this!" she said, quickly, taking
off the glove she had put on her left hand. "You poor Marchese!"

She looked at his damp "smoking," his soaking gloves and deplorable
expression, and could not repress a little rush of laughter.

"Do forgive me! Madre, I know I'm behaving shamefully, but we are all
so hopelessly inappropriate. Your diamond broach, Madre! And your hat
is all on one side. Gaspare must have knocked it with the umbrella. I am
sure we all look like hens in a shower!"

She leaned back against the swaying side of the cabin and laughed till
the tears were in her eyes. The sudden coming of the storm had increased
the excitement that had been already within her, created by the
incidents of the day.

"Vere!" said her mother, but smiling through the protest.

The Marchesino showed his big white teeth. Everything that Vere did
seemed to develop his admiration for her. He was delighted with this
mood, and forgot his disappointment. But there was a glint of wonder in
his eyes, and now he said:

"But the Signorina is not afraid! She does not cry out! She does not
call upon the Madonna and the Saints! My mother, my sisters, if they
were here--"

The prow of the launch struck a wave which burst over the bows,
scattering spray to the roof of the cabin.

"But I like it, I love it!" said Vere. "Don't you?--don't you, Madre?"

Before Hermione could reply the Marchesino exclaimed:

"Signorina, in the breast of an angel you have the heart of a lion! The
sea will never harm you. How could it? It will treat you as it treats
the Saint of your pool, San Francesco. You know what the sailors and
the fishermen say? In the wildest storms, when the sea crashes upon the
rocks, never, never does it touch San Francesco. Never does it put out
the lamp that burns at San Francesco's feet."

"Yes, I have heard them say that," Vere said.

Suddenly her face had become serious.