for him down there by the sea.

How lonely our souls are!--something like that he thought. Circumstances
were turning him away from his thoughtless youth. He had imagined it
sinking down out of his sight into the purple sea, with the magic island
in which it had danced the tarantella and heard the voice of the siren.
But was it not leaving him, vanishing from him while still his feet trod
the island and his eyes saw her legendary mountains?

Gaspare, he knew, was on the watch. That was why he was absent from his
duties. But the hour was at hand when he would be relieved. The evening
was coming. Maurice was glad. He was ready to face even violence, but he
felt that he could not for much longer endure suspense and play the quiet
host and husband.

Tea was over and Gaspare had not returned. The clock he had bought at the
fair struck five.

"I ought to be going," Artois said.

There was reluctance in his voice. Hermione noticed it and knew what he
was feeling.

"You must come up again very soon," she said.

"Yes, monsieur, come to-morrow, won't you?" Maurice seconded her.

The thought of what was going to happen before to-morrow made it seem to
him a very long way off.

Hermione looked pleased.

"I must not be a bore," Artois answered. "I must not remind you and
myself of limpets. There are rocks in your garden which might suggest the
comparison. I think to-morrow I ought to stay quietly in Marechiaro."

"No, no," said Maurice. "Do come to-morrow."

"Thank you very much. I can't pretend that I do not wish to come. And,
now that donkey-boy--has he climbed up, I wonder?"

"I'll go and see," said Maurice.

He was feverishly impatient to get rid of Artois. He hurried to the arch.
A long way off, near the path that led up from the ravine, he saw a
figure with a gun. He was not sure, but he was almost sure that it was
Gaspare. It must be he. The gun made him look, indeed, a sentinel. If
Salvatore came the boy would stop him, stop him, if need be, at the cost
of his own life. Maurice felt sure of that, and realized the danger of
setting such faithfulness and violence to be sentinel. He stood for a
moment looking at the figure. Yes, he knew it now for Gaspare. The boy
had forgotten tea-time, had forgotten everything, in his desire to carry
out his padrone's instructions. The signora was not to know. She was
never to know. And Salvatore might come. Very well, then, he was there in
the sun--ready.

"We'll never par