hink she will leave the house
to-night. Wouldn't you like to see her?"

"Signore, I always like to see the Signora."

"And I think she likes to see you. I know she does."

"Si, Signore. The Signora is always glad when I come."

He spoke without conceit or vanity, with utterly sincere simplicity.

"Go to the house and ask to see her now--Gaspare will take you."

As he spoke he looked at Gaspare, and Gaspare understood.

"Come on, Ruffo!"

Gaspare's voice was rough, arbitrary, but the eyes that he turned on
Ruffo were full of the almost melting gentleness that Hermione had seen
in them sometimes and that she had always loved.

"Come on, Ruffino!"

He walked away quickly, almost sternly, towards the house. And Ruffo
followed him.

CHAPTER XLI

Artois did not go with them. Once again he was governed by an imperious
feeling that held him inactive, the feeling that it was not for him to
approach Hermione--that others might draw near to her, but that he dared
not. The sensation distressed and almost humiliated him, it came upon
him like a punishment for sin, and as a man accepts a punishment which
he is conscious of deserving Artois accepted it.

So now he waited alone on the crest of the island, looking towards the
Casa del Mare.

What would be the result of this strange and daring embassy?

He was not long to be in doubt.

"Signore! Signore!"

Gaspare's voice was calling him from somewhere in the darkness.

"Signore."

"I am coming."

There had been a thrill of emotion in the appeal sent out to him. He
hurried towards the house. He crossed the bridge. When he was on it he
heard the splash of oars below him in the Pool, but he took no heed of
it. What were the fishermen to him to-night? Before the house door he
met Gaspare and Ruffo.

"What is it?"

"The Signora is not in her room, Signore."

"Not--? How do you know? Is the door open?"

"Si, Signore. The Signora has gone! And the _fattura della morte_ has
gone."

"The _fattura della morte_ has gone!" repeated Ruffo.

The repetition of the words struck a chill to the heart of Artois. Again
he was beset by superstition. He caught it from these children of the
South, who stared at him now with their grave and cloudy eyes.

"Perhaps one of the servants--" he began.

"No, Signore. I have asked them. And they would not dare to touch it."

"The Signorina?"

He shook his head.

"She is in the garden. She has been there all the time. She d