Opposite the door that opens
from the road, there runs a gallery from which two flights of steps lead
down to the water, the first on the side of the prow, the second on the
side of the stern. Toni Gall went down the second flight to tighten the
stern chain. There, between the boat and the lowest step, where the
water is from sixty to seventy centimetres deep, he saw Maria's little
body. She was floating face downwards, with her back above the water. As
he drew her out he saw a little tin boat lying on the bottom. He carried
the child to the house, crying out with his terrible voice, bringing the
whole town to the spot, and fortunately the doctor also, who happened to
be in Oria, and then he helped Ester undress the poor little creature,
who gave no sign of life.

With whom had she been before going down to the lake? Not with Veronica,
for before Luisa went out Veronica had been seen going into the
storeroom where the flowerpots were kept, with her customs-guard. Nor
had she been with Ester and the Professor. Ester had sent her to pray in
the alcove-room, and had not seen her again. Cia had been sewing and
Uncle Piero had been writing when they heard Toni Gall's shouts. Maria
must have gone straight from the alcove-room to the boathouse to sail
her boat, and as ill-luck would have it, she had found both the house
door and the door of the boathouse open. It was Toni Gall's opinion that
she had been in the water several minutes, for she was floating at some
distance from the spot where the little tin boat lay. Standing in the
hall where Cia, the engineer, the Professor, and others from the village
were assembled, he was describing his frightful discovery for the
hundredth time. All save Uncle Piero were sobbing. Seated on the sofa
where Ester and the Professor had sat, he seemed turned to stone. He
shed no tears and spoke never a word. Toni Gall's chattering was
evidently annoying to him, but he held his peace. His noble countenance
was rather solemn and grave than distressed. It was as if the shade of
ancient Destiny had arisen before his eyes. He did not even ask for
news; it was evident he was without hope. And it was also evident that
his sorrow was very different from all this nervous, noisy, fleeting
sorrow that surrounded him. His was the mute, calm grief of the wise and
the strong.

From the open door of the alcove-room came voices now commanding, now
questioning, but for an hour and a half no one could have asse