e
stones that he was wild with impatience, that he was secretly cursing her
for obliging him to go so slowly. Had he been alone he would have sped
down with a rapidity almost like that of travelling light. She was
strong, active. She was going fast. Instinctively she went fast. But she
was a woman, not a boy.

"I can't help it, Gaspare!"

She was saying that mentally, saying it again and again, as she hurried
onward.

Had there not been omens?

That last letter of hers, whose loss had prevented Maurice from meeting
her on her return, from welcoming her! When she had reached the station
of Cattaro, and had not seen him upon the platform, she had felt "I have
lost him." Afterwards, directly almost, she had laughed at the feeling as
absurd. But she had had it. And then, when at last he had come, she had
been moved to suggest that he might like to sleep outside upon the
terrace. And he had agreed to the suggestion. They had not resumed their
old, sweet relation of husband and wife.

Had there not been omens?

And only an hour ago, scarcely that, not that, she had knelt before the
Madonna della Rocca and she had prayed, she had prayed passionately for
deserted women, for women who loved and who had lost those whom they
loved.

The fear was upon her fully now, and she fully knew that it was. Why had
she prayed for lonely, deserted women? What had moved her to such a
prayer?

"Was I praying for myself?"

At that thought a physical weakness came to her, and she felt as if she
could not go on. By the side of the path, growing among pointed rocks,
there was a gnarled olive-tree, whose branches projected towards her.
Before she knew what she was doing she had caught hold of one and stood
still. So suddenly she had stopped that Gaspare, unprepared, came up
against her in the dark.

"Signora! What is the matter?"

His voice was surely angry. For a moment she thought of telling him to go
on alone, quickly.

"What is it, signora?"

"Nothing--only--I've walked so fast. Wait one minute!"

She felt the agony of his impatience, and it seemed to her that she was
treating him very cruelly to-night.

"You know, Gaspare," she said, "it's not easy for women--this rough
walking, I mean. We've got our skirts."

She laughed. How unnatural, how horrible her laugh sounded in the
darkness! He did not say any more. She knew he was wondering why she had
laughed like that. After a moment she let go the branch. But her legs
were