While the little party sat at table, the sailors gathered together at a distance among the rocks, and presently the strong red light of their fire shot up through the shadows, lending new contrasts to the scene.  And there they slung their kettle on an oar and patiently waited for the water to boil, while the man known as the Gull, always cook in every crew in which he chanced to find himself, sat with the salt on one side of him and a big bundle of macaroni on the other, prepared to begin operations at any moment.

Ruggiero stood a little apart, his back against a boulder, his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on Beatrice’s face.  His keen sight could distinguish the changing play of her expression as readily at that distance as though he had been standing beside her, and he tried to catch the words she spoke, listening with a sort of hurt envy to the little silvery laugh that now and then echoed across the open space and lost itself in the crannies of the rocks.  It all hurt him, and yet for nothing in the world would he have turned away or shut his ears.  More than once, too, the thoughts that had disturbed him while he was steering in the afternoon, came upon him with renewed and startling strength.  He had in him some of that red old blood that does not stop for trifles such as life and death when the hour of passion burns, and the brain reels with overmastering love.

And Bastianello was not in a much better case, though his was less hard to bear.  The pretty Teresina had seated herself on a smooth rock in the moonlight, not far from the table, and as the dishes came back, the young sailor waited on her and served her with unrelaxed attention.  Since Ruggiero would not take advantage of the situation, his brother saw no reason for not at least enjoying the pleasure of seeing the adorable Teresina eat and drink as it were from his hand.  Why Ruggiero was so cold, and stood there against his rock, silent and glowering, Bastianello could not at all understand; nor had he any thought of taking an unfair advantage.  Ruggiero was first and no one should interfere with him, or his love; but Bastianello, judging from what he felt himself, fancied that she might have given him some good advice.  Teresina’s cheeks flushed with pleasure and her eyes sparkled each time he brought her some dainty from the master’s table, and she thanked him in the prettiest way imaginable, so that her voice reminded him of the singing of the yellow-beaked blackbird he kept in a cage at home ­which was saying much, for the blackbird sang well and sweetly.  But Bastianello only said each time that “it was nothing,” and then stood silently waiting beside her till she should finish what she was eating and be ready for more.  Teresina would doubtless have enjoyed a little conversation, and she looked up from time to time at the handsome sailor beside her, with a look of enquiry in her eyes, as though to ask why he said nothing.  But Bastianello felt that he was on his honour, for he never doubted that the little maid was the cause of Ruggiero’s disease of the heart and indeed of all that his brother evidently suffered, and he was too modest by nature to think that Teresina could prefer him to Ruggiero, who had always been the object of his own unbounded devotion and admiration.  Presently, when there was nothing more to offer her, and the party at the table were lighting their cigarettes over their coffee, he went away and going up to Ruggiero drew him a little further aside from the group of sailors.

“I want to tell you something,” he began.  “You must not be as you are, a man like you.”

“How may that be?” asked Ruggiero, still looking towards the table, and not pleased at being dragged from his former post of observation.

“I will tell you.  I have been serving her with food.  You could have done that instead if you had wished.  You could have talked to her, and she would have liked it.  It is easy when a woman is sitting apart and a man brings her good food and wine ­you could have spoken a word into her ear.”

Ruggiero was silent, but he slowly nodded twice, then shook his head.

“You do not say anything,” continued Bastianello, “and you do wrong.  What I tell you is true, and you cannot deny it.  After all, we are men and they are women.  Are they to speak first?”

“It is just,” answered Ruggiero laconically.

“But then, per Dio, go and talk to her.  Are you going to begin giving her the gold before you have spoken?”

From which question it will be clear to the unsophisticated foreigner that a regular series of presents in jewelry is the natural accompaniment of a well-to-do courtship in the south.  The trinkets are called collectively “the gold.”

Ruggiero did not find a ready answer to so strong an argument.  Little guessing that his brother was almost as much in love with Teresina as he himself was with her mistress, he saw no reason for undeceiving him concerning his own feelings.  Since Bastianello had discovered that he, Ruggiero, was suffering from an acute attack of the affections, it had become the latter’s chief object to conceal the real truth.  It was not so much, that he dreaded the ridicule ­he, a poor sailor ­of being known to love a great lady’s daughter; ridicule was not among the things he feared.  But something far too subtle for him to define made him keep his secret to himself ­an inborn, chivalrous, manly instinct, inherited through generations of peasants but surviving still, as the trace of gold in the ashes of a rich stuff that has had gilded threads in it.

“If I did begin with the gold,” he said at last, “and if she would not have me when I spoke afterwards, she would give the gold back.”

“Of course she would.  What do you take her for?” Bastianello asked the question almost angrily, for he loved Teresina and he resented the slightest imputation upon her fair dealing.

Ruggiero looked at him curiously, but was far too much preoccupied with his own thoughts to guess what the matter was.  He turned away and went towards the fire where the Gull was already tasting a slippery string of the macaroni to find out whether it were enough cooked.  Bastianello shrugged his shoulders and followed him in silence.  Before long they were all seated round the huge earthen dish, each armed with an iron fork in one hand and a ship biscuit in the other, with which to catch the drippings neatly, according to good manners, in conveying the full fork from the dish to the wide-opened mouth.  By and by there was a sound of liquid gurgling from a demijohn as it was poured into the big jug, and the wine went round quickly from hand to hand, while those who waited for their turn munched their biscuits.  Some one has said that great appetites, like great passions, are silent.  Hardly a word was said until the wine was passed a second time with a ration of hard cheese and another biscuit.  Then the tongues were unloosed and the strange, uncouth jests of the rough men circulated in an undertone, and now and then one of them suffered agonies in smothering a huge laugh, lest his mirth should disturb the “excellencies” at their table.  The latter, however, were otherwise engaged and paid little attention to the sailors.

The Marchesa di Mola, having eaten about six mouthfuls of twice that number of delicacies and having swallowed half a glass of champagne and a cup of coffee, was extended in her cane rocking-chair, with her back to the moon and her face to the lamp, trying to imagine herself in her comfortable sitting room at the hotel, or even in her own luxurious boudoir in her Sicilian home.  The attempt was fairly successful, and the result was a passing taste of that self-satisfied beatitude which is the peculiar and enviable lot of very lazy people after dinner.  She cared for nothing and she cared for nobody.  San Miniato and Beatrice might sit over there by the water’s edge, in the moonlight, and talk in low tones as long as they pleased.  There were no tiresome people from the hotel to watch their proceedings, and nothing better could happen than that they should fall in love, be engaged and married forthwith.  That was certainly not the way the Marchesa could have wished the courtship and marriage to develop and come to maturity, if there had been witnesses of the facts from amongst her near acquaintance.  But since there was nobody to see, and since it was quite impossible that she should run after the pair when they chose to leave her side, resignation was the best policy, resignation without effort, without fatigue and without qualms.  Moreover, San Miniato himself had told her that in some of the best families in the north of Italy it was considered permissible for a man to offer himself directly to a young lady, and San Miniato was undoubtedly familiar with the usages of the very best society.  It was quite safe to trust to him.

San Miniato himself would have greatly preferred to leave the negotiations in the hands of the Marchesa and would have done so had he not known that she possessed no power whatever over Beatrice.  But he saw that the Marchesa, however much she might desire the marriage, would never exert herself to influence her daughter.  She was far too indolent, and at heart, perhaps, too indifferent, and she knew the value of money and especially of her own.  San Miniato made up his mind that if he won at all, it must be upon his own merits and by his own efforts.

He had not found it hard to lead Beatrice away from the lamp when dinner was over, and after walking about on the rocks for a few minutes he proposed that they should sit down near the water, facing the moonlit sea.  Beatrice sat upon a smooth projection and San Miniato placed himself at her feet, in such a position that he could look up into her face and talk to her without raising his voice.

“So you are glad you came here, Donna Beatrice,” he said.

“Very glad,” she answered.  “It is something I have never seen before ­something I shall never forget, as long as I live.”

“Nor I.”

“Have you a good memory?”

“For some things, not for others.”

“For what, for instance?”

“For those I love –­”

“And a bad memory for those whom you have loved,” suggested Beatrice with a smile.

“Have you any reason for saying that?” asked San Miniato gravely.  “You know too little of me and my life to judge of either.  I have not loved many, and I have remembered them well.”

“How many?  A dozen, more or less?  Or twenty?  Or a hundred?”

“Two.  One is dead, and one has forgotten me.”

Beatrice was silent.  It was admirably done, and for the first time he made her believe that he was in earnest.  It had not been very hard for him either, for there was a foundation of truth in what he said.  He had not always been a man without heart.

“It is much to have loved twice,” said the young girl at last, in a dreamy voice.  She was thinking of what had passed through her mind that afternoon.

“It is much ­but not enough.  What has never been lived out, is never enough.”

“Perhaps ­but who could love three times?”

“Any man ­and the third might be the best and the strongest, as well as the last.”

“To me it seems impossible.”

San Miniato had got his chance and he knew it.  He was nervous and not sure of himself, for he knew very well that she had but a passing attraction for him, beyond the very solid inducement to marry her offered by her fortune.  But he knew that the opportunity must not be lost, and he did not waste time.  He spoke quietly, not wishing to risk a dramatic effect until he could count on his own rather slight histrionic powers.

“So it seems impossible to you, Donna Beatrice,” he said, in a musing tone.  “Well, I daresay it does.  Many things must seem impossible to you which are rather startling facts to me.  I am older than you, I am a man, and I have been a soldier.  I have lived a life such as you cannot dream of ­not worse perhaps than that of many another man, but certainly not better.  And I am quite sure that if I gave you my history you would not understand four-fifths of it, and the other fifth would shock you.  Of course it would ­how could it be otherwise?  How could you and I look at anything from quite the same point of view?”

“And yet we often agree,” said Beatrice, thoughtfully.

“Yes, we do.  That is quite true.  And that is because a certain sympathy exists between us.  I feel that very much when I am with you, and that is one reason why I try to be with you as much as possible.”

“You say that is one reason.  Have you many others?” Beatrice tried to laugh a little, but she felt somehow that laughter was out of place and that a serious moment in her life had come at last, in which it would be wiser to be grave and to think well of what she was doing.

“One chief one, and many little ones,” answered San Miniato.  “You are good to me, you are young, you are fresh ­you are gifted and unlike the others, and you have a rare charm such as I never met in any woman.  Are those not all good reasons?  Are they not enough?”

“If they were all true, they would be more than enough.  Is the chief reason the last?”

“It is the last of all.  I have not given it to you yet.  Some things are better not said at all.”

“They must be bad things,” answered Beatrice, with an air of innocence.

She was beginning to understand, at last, that he really intended to make her a declaration of love.  It was unheard of, almost inconceivable.  But there he was at her feet, looking very handsome in the moonlight, his face turned up to hers with an unmistakable look of devotion in its rather grave lines.  His voice, too, had a new sound in it.  Indifferent as he might be by daylight and in ordinary life, the magic of the place and scene affected him a little at the present moment.  Perhaps a memory of other years, when his pulse had quickened and his voice had trembled oddly, just touched his heart now and it responded with a faint thrill.  For a moment at least he forgot his sordid plan, and Beatrice’s own personal attraction was upon him.

And she was very lovely as she sat there, looking down at him, with white folded hands, hatless in the warm night, her eyes full of the dancing rays that trembled upon the softly rippling water.

“If they are not bad things,” she said, speaking again, “why do you not tell them to me?”

“You would laugh.”

“I have laughed enough to-night.  Tell me!”

“Tell you!  Yes ­that is easy to do.  But it would be so hard to make you understand!  It is the difference between a word and a thought, between belief and mere show, between truth and hearsay ­more than that ­much more than I can tell you.  It means so much to me ­it may mean so little to you, when I have said it!”

“But if you do not say it, how can I guess it, or try to understand it?”

“Would you try?  Would you?”

“Yes.”

Her voice was soft, gentle, persuasive.  She felt something she had never felt, and it must be love, she thought.  She had always liked him a little better than the rest.  But surely, this was more than mere liking.  She had a strange longing to hear him say the words, to start, as her instinct told her she must, when he spoke them, to be told for the first time that she was loved.  Is it strange, after all?  Young, imaginative and full of life, she had been brought up to believe that she was to be married to some man she scarcely knew, after a week’s acquaintance, without so much as having talked five minutes with him alone; she had been taught that love was a legend and matrimony a matter of interest.  And yet here was the man whom her mother undoubtedly wished her to marry, not only talking with her as they had often talked before, with no one to hear what was said, but actually on the verge of telling her that he loved her.  Could anything be more delicious, more original, more in harmony with the place and hour?  And as if all this were not enough, she really felt the touch and thrill of love in her own heart, and the leaping wonder to know what was to come.

She had told him to speak and she waited for his voice.  He, on his part, knew that much was at stake, for he saw that she was moved, and that all depended on his words.  The fewer the better, he thought, if only there could be a note of passion in them, if only one of them could ring as all of poor Ruggiero’s had rung when he had spoken that afternoon.  He hesitated and hesitation would be fatal if it lasted another five seconds.  He grew desperate.  Where were the words and the tone that had broken down the will of other women, far harder to please than this mere child?  He felt everything at once, except love.  He saw her fortune slipping from him at the very moment of getting it, he felt a little contempt for the part he was playing and a sovereign scorn for his own imbecility, he even anticipated the Marchesa’s languid but cutting comments on his failure.  One second more, and all was lost ­but not a word would come.  Then, in sheer despair and with a violence that betrayed it, he seized one of Beatrice’s hands in both of his and kissed it madly a score of times.  As she interpreted the action, no eloquence of words could have told her more of what she wished to hear.  It was unexpected, it was passionate; if it had been premeditated, it would have been a stroke of genius.  As it was, it was a stroke of luck for San Miniato.  With the true gambler’s instinct he saw that he was winning and his hesitation disappeared.  His voice trembled passionately now with excitement, if not with love ­but it was the same to Beatrice, who heard the quick-spoken words that followed, and drank them in as a thirsty man swallows the first draught of wine he can lay hands on, be it ever so acid.

At the first moment she had been startled and had almost uttered a short cry, half of delight and half of fear.  But she had no wish to alarm her mother and the quick thought stifled her voice.  She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it tightly in his own which were cold as ice, and she sat still listening to all he said.

“Ah, Beatrice!” he was saying, “you have given me back life itself!  Can you guess what I have lived through in these days?  Can you imagine how I have thought of you and suffered day and night, and said to myself that I should never have your love?  Can you dream what it must be to a man like me, lonely, friendless, half heart-broken, to find the one jewel worth living for, the one light worth seeking, the one woman worth loving ­and then to long for her almost without hope, and so long?  It is long, too.  Who counts the days or the weeks when he loves?  It is as though we had loved from the beginning of our lives!  Can you or I imagine what it all was like before we met?  I cannot remember that past time.  I had no life before it ­it is all forgotten, all gone, all buried and for ever.  You have made everything new to me, new and beautiful and full of light ­ah, Beatrice!  How I love you!”

Rather a long speech at such a moment, an older woman would have thought, and not over original in choice of similes and epithets, but fluent enough and good enough to serve the purpose and to turn the current of Beatrice’s girlish life.  Yet not much of a love-speech.  Ruggiero’s had been better, as a little true steel is better than much iron at certain moments in life.  It succeeded very well at the moment, but its ultimate success would have been surer if it had reached no ears but Beatrice’s.  Neither she nor San Miniato were aware that a few feet below them a man was lying on his back, with white face and clenched hands, staring at the pale moonlit sky above him, and listening in stony despair to every word that was spoken.

The sight would have disturbed them, had they seen it, though they both were fearless by nature and not easily startled.  Had Beatrice seen Ruggiero at that moment, she would have learned once and for ever the difference between real passion and its counterfeit.  But Ruggiero knew where he was and had no intention of betraying himself by voice or movement.  He suffered almost all that a man can suffer by the heart alone, but he was strong and could bear torture.

The hardest of all was that he understood the real truth, partly by instinct and partly through what he knew of his master.  Those rough southern sailors sometimes have a wonderful keenness in discovering the meaning of their masters’ doings.  Ruggiero held the key to the situation.  He knew that San Miniato was poor and that the Marchesa was very rich.  He knew very well that San Miniato was not at all in love, for he knew what love really meant, and he could see how the Count always acted by calculation and never from impulse.  Best of all he saw that Beatrice was a mere child who was being deceived by the coolly assumed passion of a veteran woman-killer.  It was bitterly hard to bear.  And he had felt a foreboding of it all in the afternoon ­and he wished that he had risked all and brought down the brass tiller on San Miniato’s head and submitted to be sent to the galleys for life.  He could never have forgotten Beatrice; but San Miniato could never have married her, and that satisfaction would have made chains light and hard labour a pastime.

It was too late to think of such things now.  Had he yielded to the first murderous impulse, it would have been better.  But he had never struck a man from behind and he knew that he could not do it in cold blood.  Yet how much better it would have been!  He would not be lying now on the rock, holding his breath and clenching his fists, listening to his Excellency the Count of San Miniato’s love making.  By this time the Count of San Miniato would be cold, and he, Ruggiero, would be handcuffed and locked up in the little barrack of the gendarmes at Sorrento, and Beatrice with her mother would be recovering from their fright as best they could in the rooms at the hotel, and Teresina would be crying, and Bastianello would be sitting at the door of his brother’s prison waiting to see what happened and ready to do what he could.  Truly all this would have been much better!  But the moment had passed and he must lie on his rock in silence, bound hand and foot by the necessity of hiding himself, and giving his heart to be torn to pieces by San Miniato’s aristocratic fine gentleman’s hands, and burned through and through by Beatrice’s gentle words.

“And so you really love me?” said San Miniato, sure at last of his victory.

“Do you doubt it, after what I have done?” asked Beatrice in a very soft voice.  “Did I not leave my hand in yours when you took it so roughly and ­you know –­”

“When I kissed it ­but I want the words, too ­only once, from your beautiful lips –­”

“The words –­” Beatrice hesitated.  They were too new to her lips, and a soft blush rose in her cheeks, visible even in the moonlight.

Ruggiero’s heart stood still ­not for the first time that day.  Would she speak the three syllables or not?

As for San Miniato, his excitement had cooled, and he threw all the tenderness he could muster into, his last request, with instinctive tact returning to the more quiet tone he had used at the beginning of the conversation.

“I ask you, Beatrice mia, to say ­” he paused, to give the proper effect in the right place ­“I love you,” he said, completing the sentence very musically and looking up most tenderly into her eyes.

She sighed, blushed again, and turned her head away.  Then quite suddenly she looked at him once more, pressed his hand nervously and spoke.

“I love you, carissimo,” she said, and rose at the same moment from her seat.  “Come ­it is time.  Mamma will be tired,” she added, while he held her hand and pressed it to his lips.

Her confusion had made it easy for him.  He would have had difficulty in ending the scene artistically if she had not unconsciously helped him.

Ruggiero clenched his hands a little tighter and tried not to breathe.

“It is a lie,” he said in his heart, but his lips never moved, nor did he stir a limb as he listened to the departing footsteps on the ledge above.

Then with the ease of great strength he drew himself along through cranny and hollow till he was far from where they sat, and had reached the place where the boats were made fast.  It would seem natural to every one that he should suddenly be standing there to see that all was right, and that none of the moorings had slipped or chafed against the jagged rocks.  There he stood, gazing at the rippling water, at the tall yards as they slowly crossed and recrossed the face of the moon, with the rocking of the boats, at the cliffs to the right and left, at the dim headland of the Campanella, at all the sights long familiar to him ­seeing none of them and yet feeling that they at least were his own people, that they understood him and knew what he felt ­what he had no words with which to tell any one, if he had wished to tell it.

For he who loves and is little loved, or not at all, has no friend, be he of high estate or low, beyond nature, the deep-bosomed, the bountiful, the true; and on her he may lean, trusting, and know that he will not be betrayed.  And in time her language will be his.  But she will be heard alone when she speaks with him, and without rival, with the full right of a woman who gives all her love and asks for a man’s soul in return, recking little of all the world besides.  But not all know how kind she is, how merciful and how sweet.  For she does not heal broken hearts.  She takes them as they are into her own, with all the memory and all the sin, perhaps, and all the bitter sorrow which is the reward of faith and faithlessness alike.  She takes them all, and holds them kindly in her own breast, as she has taken the torn limbs of martyred saints and tortured sinners and has softly turned them all into a fragrant dust.  And though the ashes of the heart be very bitter, they are after all but dust, which cannot feel of itself any more.  Yet there may be something left behind, in the place where it lived and was broken and died, which is not wholly bad, though there be little good in this earth where there is no heart.

Moreover, nature is a silent mistress to all but those who love her, and she tells no tales as men and women do, and forgets none of the secrets which are told to her, for they are our treasures ­treasures of love and of hate, of sweetness and of poison, which we lay up in her keeping when we are alone with her, sure that we shall find again all we have given up if we require it of her.  But as the years blossom, bloom, and fade in their quick succession, the day will come when we shall ask of her only the balm and be glad to leave the poison hidden, and to forget how we would have used it in old days ­when we shall ask her only to give us the memory of a dear and gentle hand ­dear still but no longer kind ­of the voice that was once a harmony, and whose harsh discord is almost music still ­of the hour when love was twofold, stainless and supreme.  Those things we shall ask of her and she, in her wonderful tenderness, will give them to us again ­in dreams, waking or sleeping, in the sunlit silence of lonely places, in soft nights when the southern sea is still, in the greater loneliness of the storm, when brave faces are set as stone and freezing hands grasp frozen ropes, and the shadow of death rises from the waves and stands between every man and his fellows.  We shall ask, and we shall receive.  Out of noon-day shadow, out of the starlit dusk, out of the driving spray of the midtempest, one face will rise, one hand will touch our own, one loving, lingering glance will meet ours from eyes that have no look of love for us in them now.  These things our lady nature will give us of all those we have given her.  But of the others, we shall not ask for them, and she will mercifully forget for us the bitterness of their birth, and life, and death.