ould stop crying again."

How different from an English boy's reticence was this frank confession!
and yet what English boy was ever more manly than this mountain lad?

"Why--but then you saved the padrone's life! God bless you!"

Hermione had stopped, and she now put her hand on Gaspare's arm.

"Oh, signora, there were two of us. We had the boat."

"But"--another thought came to her--"but, Gaspare, after such a thing as
that, how could you let the padrone go down to bathe alone?"

Gaspare, a moment before credited with a faithful action, was now to be
blamed for a faithless one. For neither was he responsible, if strict
truth were to be regarded. But he had insisted on saving his padrone from
the sea when it was not necessary. And he knew his own faithfulness and
was secretly proud of it, as a good woman knows and is proud of her
honor. He had borne the praise therefore. But one thing he could not
bear, and that was an imputation of faithlessness in his stewardship.

"It was not my fault, signora!" he cried, hotly. "I wanted to go. I
begged to go, but the padrone would not let me."

"Why not?"

Hermione, peering in the darkness, thought she saw the ugly look come
again into the boy's face.

"Why not, signora?"

"Yes, why not?"

"He wished me to stay with you. He said: 'Stay with the padrona, Gaspare.
She will be all alone.'"

"Did he? Well, Gaspare, it is not your fault. But I never thought it was.
You know that."

She had heard in his voice that he was hurt.

"Come! We must go on!"

Her fear was now tangible. It had a definite form, and with every moment
it grew greater in the night, towering over her, encompassing her about.
For she had hoped to meet Maurice coming up the ravine, and, with each
moment that went by, her hope of hearing his footstep decreased, her
conviction that something untoward must have occurred grew more solid.
Only once was her terror abated. When they were not far from the mouth of
the ravine Gaspare suddenly seized her arm from behind.

"Gaspare! What is it?" she said, startled.

He held up one hand.

"Zitta!" he whispered.

Hermione listened, holding her breath. It was a silent night, windless
and calm. The trees had no voices, the watercourse was dry, no longer
musical with the falling stream. Even the sea was dumb, or, if it were
not, murmured so softly that these two could not hear it where they
stood. And now, in this dark silence, they heard a faint sound. It was