but she looked calm. The
crouching woman had vanished. She was mistress of herself.

"Gaspare!" she called, in a loud, sharp voice that betrayed the inner
excitement her appearance did not show.

"Signora," vociferated the Marchesino, "I say and I repeat--"

"Gaspare! Come here!"

"Signora!" cried a voice from below.

Gaspare came running.

"The Signore Marchese is going, Gaspare. Go down with him to the boat,
please."

The Marchesino grew scarlet. The hot blood rushed over his face, up to
his forehead, to his hair. Even his hands became red in that moment.

"Good-bye, Marchese."

She went out, and left him standing with Gaspare.

"Signore Marchese, shall I take you to the boat?"

Gaspare's voice was quite respectful. The Marchesino made no answer, but
stepped out into the passage and looked up to the staircase that led to
the top floor of the house. He listened. He heard nothing.

"Is the French Signore here?" he said to Gaspare. "Do you hear me? Is he
in this house?"

"No, Signore!"

The Marchesino again looked towards the staircase and hesitated. Then he
turned and saw Gaspare standing in a watchful attitude, almost like one
about to spring.

"Stay here!" he said, loudly, making a violent threatening gesture with
his arm.

Gaspare stood where he was with a smile upon his face.

A moment later he heard the splash of oars in the sea, and knew that the
Marchesino's boat was leaving the island.

He drew his lips together like one about to whistle.

The sound of the oars died away.

Then he began to whistle softly "La Ciocciara."

CHAPTER XXXII

The ghostly day sank into a ghostly night that laid pale hands upon
the island, holding it closely, softly, in a hypnotic grasp, bidding it
surely rest, it and those who dwelled there with all the dreaming hours.
A mist hung over the sea, and the heat did not go with day, but stayed
to greet the darkness and the strange, enormous silence that lay upon
the waters. In the Casa del Mare the atmosphere was almost suffocating,
although every window was wide open. The servants went about their
duties leaden-footed, drooping, their Latin vivacity quenched as by a
spell. Vere was mute. It seemed, since the episode of the Carmine, as if
her normal spirit had been withdrawn, as if a dumb, evasive personality
replaced it. The impression made upon Hermione was that the real Vere
had sunk far down in her child, out of sight and hearing, out of reach,
beyond p