ly man."

"I am sure that is true. But--"

"What is it?"

"The heart? What about that?"

"Perhaps there are some hearts that can fulfil themselves sufficiently
in friendship."

As Artois said this his eyes rested upon Hermione with an expression in
them that revealed much that he never spoke in words. She put out her
hand, and took his, and pressed it, holding hers over it upon the oar.

"Emile," she said, "sometimes you make me feel unworthy and ungrateful
because--because I still need, I dare to need more than I have been
given. Without you I don't know how I should have faced it."

"Without me you would never have had to face it."

That was the cry that rose up perpetually in the heart of Artois, the
cry that Hermione must never hear. He said to her now:

"Without you, Hermione, I should be dust in the dust of Africa!"

"Perhaps we each owe something to the other," she said. "It is blessed
to have a debt to a friend."

"Would to God that I could pay all my debt to you!" Artois exclaimed.

Again the cavern took up his voice and threw it back to the sea in
confused and hollow mutterings. They both looked up, as if some one were
above them, warning them or rebuking them. At that instant they had the
feeling that they were being watched. But there was only the empty gray
sea about them, and over their heads the rugged, weary rock that had
leaned over the sea for countless years.

"Hark!" said Artois, "it is telling me that my debt to you can never be
paid: only in one way could it be partially discharged. If I could
show you a path to happiness, the happiness you long for, and need, the
passionate happiness of the heart that is giving where it rejoices to
give--for your happiness must always be in generosity--I should have
partially paid my debt to you. But that is impossible."

"I've made you sad to-day by my complaining," she said, with
self-rebuke; "I'm sorry. You didn't realize?"

"How it was with you? No, not quite--I thought you were more at peace
than you are."

"Till to-day I believe I was half deceived too."

"That singing boy, that--what is his name?"

"Ruffo."

"That Ruffo, I should like to run a knife into him under the left
shoulder-blade. How dare he, a ragamuffin from some hovel of Naples,
make you know that you are unhappy?"

"How strange it is what outside things, or people who have no connection
with us or with our lives, can do to us unconsciously!" she said. "I
have heard a h