surely a foot-fall upon stones. Yes, it was.

By the fierce joy that burst up in her heart Hermione measured her
previous fear.

"It's he! It's the padrone!"

She put her face close to Gaspare's and whispered the words. He nodded.
His eyes were shining.

"Andiamo!" he whispered back.

With a boy's impetuosity he wished to rush on and meet the truant pilgrim
from the sea, but Hermione held him back. She could not bear to lose that
sweet sound, the foot-fall on the stones, coming nearer every moment.

"No. Let's wait for him here! Let's give him a surprise."

"Va bene!"

His body was quivering with suppressed movement. But they waited. The
step was slow, or so it seemed to Hermione as she listened again, like
the step of a tired man. Maurice seldom walked like that, she thought. He
was light-footed, swift. His actions were ardent as were his eyes. But it
must be he! Of course it was he! He was languid after a long swim, and
was walking slowly for fear of getting hot. That must be it. The walker
drew nearer, the crunch of the stones was louder under his feet.

"It isn't the padrone!"

Gaspare had spoken. All the light had gone out of his eyes.

"Si! Si! It is he!"

Hermione contradicted him.

"No, signora. It is a contadino."

Her joy was failing. Although she contradicted Gaspare, she began to feel
that he was right. This step was heavy, weary, an old man's step. It
could not be her Mercury coming up to his home on the mountain. But still
she waited. Presently there detached itself from the darkness a faint
figure, bent, crowned with a long Sicilian cap.

"Andiamo!"

This time she did not keep Gaspare back. Without a word they went on. As
they came to the figure it stopped. She did not even glance at it, but as
she went by it she heard an old, croaky voice say:

"Benedicite!"

Never before had the Sicilian greeting sounded horrible in her ears. She
did not reply to it. She could not. And Gaspare said nothing. They
hastened on in silence till they reached the high-road by Isola Bella,
the road where Maurice had met Maddalena on the morning of the fair.

It was deserted. The thick white dust upon it looked ghastly at their
feet. Now they could hear the faint and regular murmur of the oily sea by
which the fishermen's boats were drawn up, and discern, far away on the
right, the serpentine lights of Cattaro.

"Where do you go to bathe?" Hermione asked, always speaking in a hushed
voice. "Here, by I