It
seemed unlikely, almost impossible. But if Ruffo were there, if Artois
came, it would be fatality. That she was there was fatality.

She walked always slowly, always furtively, to the crest of the cliff.

She stood there. She listened.

Silence.

She felt as if she were quite alone on the island. She could scarcely
believe that Vere, that Gaspare, that the servants were there--among
them Peppina with her cross.

They said Peppina had the evil eye. Had she perhaps cast a spell
to-night?

Hermione did not smile at such an imagination as she dismissed it.

She waited and listened, but not actively, for she did not feel as if
Ruffo could ever stand with her in the embrace of such a night, he, a
boy, with bright hopes and eager longings, he the happy singer of the
song of Mergellina.

And yet, when in a moment she found him standing by her side, she
accepted his presence as a thing inevitable.

It had been meant, perhaps for centuries, that they two should stand
together that night, speak together as now they were about to speak.

"Signora, buona sera."

"Buona sera, Ruffo."

"The Signorina is not here to-night?"

"I think she is in the house. I think she is tired to-night."

"The Signorina is tired after the Festa, Signora."

"You knew we were at the Festa, Ruffo?"

"Ma si, Signora."

"Did we tell you we were going? I had forgotten."

"It was not that, Signora. But I saw the Signorina at the Festa. Did not
Don Gaspare tell you?"

"Gaspare said nothing. Did he see you?"

She spoke languidly. Quickness had died out of her under the influence
of the night. But already she felt a slight yet decided sense of relief,
almost of peace. She drew that from Ruffo. And, standing very close
to him, she watched his eager face, hoping to see presently in it the
expression that she loved.

"Did he see you, Ruffo?"

"Ma si, Signora. I was with my poor mamma."

"Your mother! I wish I had met her!"

"Si, Signora. I was with my mamma in the Piazza of Masaniello. We had
been eating snails, Signora, and afterwards watermelon, and we had each
had a glass of white wine. And I was feeling very happy, because my poor
mamma had heard good news."

"What was that?"

"To-morrow my Patrigno is to be let out of prison."

"So soon! But I thought he had not been tried."

"No, Signora. But he is to be let out now. Perhaps he will be put back
again. But now he is let out because"--he hesitated--"because--well,
Signora