did not know. At one moment he thought that he
could do it, at another that he would rather throw himself over the
precipice of the mountain than do it.

"I don't understand it at all."

There was a lack of interest in his voice, but she did not notice it. She
was full of the wonder of the morning, the wonder of being again with
him, and the wonder of what she had to tell him.

"Maurice"--she put her hand on his--"the night I was crossing the sea to
Africa I knew. All these days I have kept this secret from you because I
could not write it. It seemed to me too sacred. I felt I must be with you
when I told it. That night upon the sea I was very sad. I could not
sleep. I was on deck looking always back, towards Sicily and you. And
just when the dawn was coming I--I knew that a child was coming, too, a
child of mine and yours."

She was silent. Her hand pressed his, and now she was again looking
towards the sea. And it seemed to him that her face was new, that it was
already the face of a mother.

He said nothing and he did not move. He looked down at the heap of stones
by which they were sitting, and his eyes rested on a piece of paper
covered with writing. It was a fragment of Hermione's letter to him. As
he saw it something sharp and cold like a weapon made of ice, seemed to
be plunged into him. He got up, pulling hard at her hand. She obeyed his
hand.

"What is it?" she said, as they stood together. "You look----"

He had become pale. He knew it.

"Hermione!" he said.

He was actually panting as if he had been running. He moved a few steps
towards the edge of the summit. She followed him.

"You are angry that I didn't tell you! But--I wanted to say it. I wanted
to--to----"

She lifted his hands to her lips.

"Thank you for giving me a child," she said.

Then tears came into his eyes and ran down over his cheeks. That he
should be thanked by her--that scourged the genuine good in him till
surely blood started under the strokes.

"Don't thank me!" he said. "Don't do that! I won't have it!"

His voice sounded angry.

"I won't ever let you thank me for anything," he went on. "You must
understand that."

He was on the edge of some violent, some almost hysterical outburst. He
thought of Gaspare casting himself down in the boat that morning when he
had feared that his padrone was drowned. So he longed to cast himself
down and cry. But he had the strength to check his impulse. Only, the
checking of it se