Beatrice did not speak again as she slowly walked up the steep ascent to the hotel.  Bastianello and Teresina exchanged a word now and then in a whisper and Ruggiero came last, watching the dark outline of Beatrice’s graceful figure, against the bright light which shone outside at the upper end of the tunnel.  Many confused thoughts oppressed him, but they were like advancing and retreating waves breaking about the central rock of his one unalterable purpose.  He followed Beatrice till they reached the door of the house.  Then she turned and smiled at him, and turned again and went in.  Bastianello of course carried the bag upstairs for Teresina, and Ruggiero stayed below.

He was very calm and quiet throughout that day, busying himself from time to time with some detail of the preparations for the evening’s excursion, but sitting for the most part alone, far out on the breakwater where the breeze was blowing and the light surf breaking just high enough to wet his face from time to time with fine spray.  He had made up his mind, and he calmly thought over all that he meant to do, that it might be well done, quickly and surely, without bungling.  To-morrow, he would not be sitting out there, breathing in the keen salt air and listening to the music of the surging water, which was the only harmony he had ever loved.

His was a very faithful and simple nature, and since he had loved Beatrice, it had been even further simplified.  He thought only of her, he had but one object, which was to serve her, and all he did must tend to the attainment of that one result.  Now, too, he had seen with his eyes and had understood in other ways that she was to be married against her will to a man she hated and despised, and who was already betraying her.  He did not try to understand how it all was, but his instinct told him that she had been tricked into saying the words she had spoken to San Miniato at Tragara, and that she had never meant them.  That at least was more comprehensible to him than it might have been to a man of Beatrice’s own class.  Her head had been turned for a moment, as Ruggiero would have said, and afterwards she had understood the truth.  He had heard many stories of the kind from his companions.  Women were changeable, of course.  Every one knew that.  And why?  Because men were bad and tempted them, and moreover because they were so made.  He did not love Beatrice for any moral quality she might or might not possess, he was far too human, and natural and too little educated to seek reasons for the passion that devoured him.  Since he felt it, it was real.  What other proof of its reality could he need?  It never entered his head to ask for any, and his heart would not have beaten more strongly or less rudely for twenty reasons, on either side.

And now he was strangely happy and strangely calm as he sat there by himself.  Beatrice could never love him.  The mere idea was absurd beyond words.  How could she love a common man like himself?  But she did not love San Miniato either, and unless something were done quickly she would be forced into marrying him.  Of course a mother could make her daughter marry whom she pleased.  Ruggiero knew that.  The only way of saving Beatrice was to make an end of San Miniato, and that was a very simple matter indeed.  San Miniato would be but a poor thing in those great hands of Ruggiero’s, though he was a well grown man and still young and certainly stronger than the average of fine gentlemen.

Of course it was a great sin to kill San Miniato.  Murder was always a sin, and people who did murder and died unabsolved always went straight into eternal fire.  But the eternal fire did not impress Ruggiero much.  In the first place Beatrice would be free and quite happy on earth, and in the natural course of things would go to Heaven afterwards, since she could have no part whatever in San Miniato’s destruction.  Secondly, San Miniato would be with Ruggiero in the flames, and throughout all eternity Ruggiero would have the undying satisfaction of having brought him there without any one’s help.  That would pay for any amount of burning, in the simple and uncompromising view of the future state which he took.

So he sat on the block of stone and listened to the sea and thought it all over quietly, feeling very happy and proud, since he was to be the means of saving the woman he loved.  What more could any man ask, if he could not be loved, than to give his soul and his body for such a good and just end?  Perhaps Ruggiero’s way of looking at the present and future state might have puzzled more than one theologian on that particular afternoon.

While Ruggiero was deciding matters of life and death in his own way, with absolute certainty of carrying out his intentions, matters were not proceeding smoothly on the Marchesa’s terrace.  The midday breakfast had passed off fairly well, though Beatrice had again grown silent, and the conversation was carried on by San Miniato with a little languid help from the Marchesa.  The latter was apparently neither disturbed nor out of humour in consequence of the little scene which had taken place in the morning.  She took a certain amount of opposition on Beatrice’s part as a matter of course, and was prepared to be very long-suffering with the girl’s moods, partly because it was less trouble than to do battle with her, and partly because it was really wiser.  Beatrice must grow used to the idea of marriage and must be gradually accustomed to the daily companionship of San Miniato.  The Marchesa, in her wisdom, was well aware that Beatrice would never see as much of him when he was her husband as she did now that they were only engaged.  San Miniato would soon take up his own life of amusement by day and night, in his own fashion, and Beatrice on her side would form her own friendships and her own ties as best pleased her, subject only to occasional interference from the Count, when he chanced to be in a jealous humour, or when it happened that Beatrice was growing intimate with some lady who had once known him too well.

After breakfast, as usual, they drank coffee and smoked upon the terrace, which Beatrice was beginning to hate for its unpleasant associations.  Before long, however, she disappeared, leaving her mother and San Miniato together.

The latter talked carelessly and agreeably at first, but insensibly led the conversation to the subject of money in general and at last to the question of Beatrice’s marriage settlement in particular.  He was very tactful and would probably have reached this desired point in the conversation in spite of the Marchesa, had she avoided it.  But she was in the humour to discuss the matter and let him draw her on without opposition.  She had thought it all over and had determined what she should do.  San Miniato was surprised, and not altogether agreeably, by her extreme clearness of perception when they actually arrived at the main discussion.

“You are aware, San Miniato mio,” she was saying, “that my poor husband was a very rich man, and you are of course familiar ­you who know everything ­with the laws of inheritance in our country.  As our dear Beatrice is an only child, the matter would have been simple, even if he had not made a will.  I should have had my widow’s portion and she would have had all the rest, as she ultimately will.”

“Of course, dearest Marchesa.  I understood that.  But it is most kind of you to tell me about the details.  In Beatrice’s interest ­and her interests will of course be my first concern in life ­”

“Of course, carissimo,” said the Marchesa, interrupting him.  “Can I doubt it?  Should I have chosen you out of so many to be my son-in-law if I had not understood from the first all the nobility and uprightness of your fine character?”

“How good you are to me!” exclaimed San Miniato, who mistrusted the preamble, but was careful not to show it.

“Not at all, dear friend!  I am never good.  It is such horrible trouble to be either good or bad, as you would know if you had my nerves.  But we were speaking of my poor husband’s will.  One half of his fortune of course he was obliged to leave to his daughter.  He could dispose of the other half as he pleased.  I believe it was that admirable man, the first Napoleon, who invented that just law, was it not?  Yes, I was sure.  My husband left the other half to me, provided I should not marry ­he was a very thoughtful man!  But if I did, the money was to go to Beatrice at once.  If I did not, however, I was ­as I really am ­quite free to dispose of it as I pleased.”

“How very just!” exclaimed San Miniato.

“Do you think so?  Yes.  But further, I wish to tell you that he set aside a sum out of what he left Beatrice, to be her dowry ­just a trifle, you know, to be paid to her husband on the marriage, as is customary.  But all the remainder, compared with which the dowry itself is insignificant, does not pass into her hands until she is of age, and of course remains entirely in her control.”

“I understand,” said San Miniato in a tone which betrayed some nervousness in spite of his best efforts to be calm, for he had assuredly not understood before.

“Of course you understand, dearest friend,” answered the Marchesa.  “You are so clever and you have such a good head for affairs, which I never had.  I assure you I never could understand anything about money.  It is all so mysterious and complicated!  Give me one of your cigarettes, I am quite exhausted with talking.”

“I think you do yourself injustice, dearest Marchesa,” said San Miniato, offering her his open case.  “You have, I think, a remarkably good understanding for business.  I really envy you.”

The Marchesa smiled languidly, and slowly inhaled the smoke from the cigarette as he held the match for her.

“I have no doubt you learned a great deal from the Marchese,” continued San Miniato.  “I must say that he displayed a keenness for his daughter’s interests such as merits the sincerest admiration.  Take the case, which happily has not arisen, dearest friend.  Suppose that Beatrice should discover that she had married a mere fortune-hunter.  The man would be entirely in your power and hers.  It is admirably arranged.”

“Admirably,” assented the Marchesa without a smile.  “It would be precisely as you say.  Beyond a few hundred thousand francs which he would control as the dowry, he could touch nothing.  He would be wholly dependent on his wife and his mother-in-law.  You see my dear husband wished to guard against even the most improbable cases.  How thankful I am that heaven has sent Beatrice such a man as you!”

“Always good!  Always kind!” San Miniato bent his head a little lower than was necessary as he looked at his watch.  He had something in his eyes which he preferred to hide.

Just then Beatrice’s step was heard on the tiled floor of the sitting-room, and neither the Marchesa nor San Miniato thought it worth while to continue the conversation with the danger of being overheard.

So the afternoon wore on, bright and cloudless, and when the air grew cool Beatrice and her mother drove out together along the Massa road, and far up the hill towards Sant’ Agata.  They talked little, for it is not easy to talk in the rattling little carriages which run so fast behind the young Turkish horses, and the roads are not always good, even in summer.  But San Miniato was left to his own devices and went and bathed, walking out into the water as far as he could and then standing still to enjoy the coolness.  Ruggiero saw him from the breakwater and watched him with evident interest.  The Count, as has been said before, could not swim a stroke, and was probably too old to learn.  But he liked the sea and bathing none the less, as Ruggiero knew.  He stayed outside the bathing-house fully half an hour, and then disappeared.

“It was not worth while,” said Ruggiero to himself, “since you are to take another bath so soon.”

Then he looked at the sun and saw that it lacked half an hour of sunset, and he went to see that all was ready for the evening.  He and Bastianello launched the old tub between them, and Ruggiero ballasted her with two heavy sacks of pebbles just amidships, where they would be under his feet.

“Better shift them a little more forward,” said Bastianello.  “There will be three passengers, you said.”

“We do not know,” answered Ruggiero.  “If there are three I can shift them quickly when every one is aboard.”

So Bastianello said nothing more about it, and they got the kettle and the torches and stowed them away in the bows.

“You had better go home and cook supper,” said Ruggiero.  “I will come when it is dark, for then the others will have eaten and I will leave two to look out.”

Bastianello went ashore on the pier and his brother pulled the skiff out till he was alongside of the sailboat, to which he made her fast.  He busied himself with trifles until it grew dark and there was no one on the pier.  Then he got into the boat again, taking a bit of strong line with him, a couple of fathoms long, or a little less.  Stooping down he slipped the line under the bags of ballast and made a timber-hitch with the end, hauling it well taut.  With the other end he made a bowline round the thwart on which he was sitting, and on which he must sit to pull the bow oar in the evening.  He tied the knot wide enough to admit of its running freely from side to side of the boat, and he stowed the bight between the ballast and the thwart, so that it lay out of sight in the bottom.  The two sacks of pebbles together weighed, perhaps, from a half to three-quarters of a hundredweight.

When all was ready he went ashore and shouted for the Cripple and the Son of the Fool, who at once appeared out of the dusk, and were put on board the sailboat by him.  Then he pulled himself ashore and moored the tub to a ring in the pier.  It was time for supper.  Bastianello would be waiting for him, and Ruggiero went home.

As the evening shadows fell, Beatrice was seated at the piano in the sitting-room playing softly to herself such melancholy music as she could remember, which was not much.  It gave her relief, however, for she could at least try and express something of what would not and could not be put into words.  She was not a musician, but she played fairly well, and this evening there was something in the tones she drew from the instrument which many a musician might have envied.  She threw into her touch all that she was suffering and it was a faint satisfaction to her to listen to the lament of the sad notes as she struck them and they rose and fell and died away.

The door opened and San Miniato entered.  She heard his footstep and recognised it, and immediately she struck a succession of loud chords and broke into a racing waltz tune.

“You were playing something quite different, when I came to the door,” he said, sitting down beside her.

“I thought you might prefer something gay,” she answered without looking at him and still playing on.

San Miniato did not answer the remark, for he distrusted her and fancied she might have a retort ready.  Her tongue was often sharper than he liked, though he was not sensitive on the whole.

“Will you sing something to me?” he asked, as she struck the last chords of the waltz.

“Oh yes,” she replied with an alacrity that surprised him, “I feel rather inclined to sing.  Mamma,” she cried, as the Marchesa entered the room, “I am going to sing to my betrothed.  Is it not touching?”

“It is very good of you,” said San Miniato.

The Marchesa smiled and sank into a chair.  Beatrice struck a few chords and then, looking at the Count with half closed eyes, began to sing the pathetic little song of Chiquita.

   “On dit que l’on te marie
   Tu saïs que j’en vais mourir ­”

Her voice was very sweet and true and there was real pathos in the words as she sang them.  But as she went on, San Miniato noticed first that she repeated the second line, and then that she sang all the remaining melody to it, singing it over and over again with an amazing variety of expression, angrily, laughingly, ironically and sadly.

   “ ­Tu saïs que j’en vais mourir!”

She ended, with a strange burst of passion.

She rose suddenly to her feet and shut the lid down sharply upon the key-board.

“How perfectly we understand each other, do we not?” she said sweetly, a moment later, and meeting San Miniato’s eyes.

“I hope we always shall,” he answered quietly, pretending not to have understood.

She left him with her mother and went out upon the terrace and looked down at the black water deep below and at the lights of the yachts and the far reflections of the stars upon the smooth bay, and at the distant light on Capo Miseno.  The night air soothed her a little, and when dinner was announced and the three sat down to the table at the other end of the terrace her face betrayed neither discontent nor emotion, and she joined in the conversation indifferently enough, so that San Miniato and her mother thought her more than usually agreeable.

At the appointed time the two porters appeared with the Marchesa’s chair, and Teresina brought in wraps and shawls, quite useless on such a night, and the little party left the room in procession, as they had done a few days earlier when they started for Tragara.  But their mood was very different to-night.  Even the Marchesa forgot to complain and let herself be carried down without the least show of resistance.  On the first excursion none of them had quite understood the other, and all of them except poor Ruggiero had been in the best of humours.  Now they all understood one another too well, and they were silent and uneasy when together.  They hardly knew why they were going, and San Miniato almost regretted having persuaded them.  Doubtless the crabs were numerous along the rocky shore and they would catch hundreds of them before midnight.  Doubtless also, the said crustaceans would be very good to eat on the following day.  But no one seemed to look forward to the delight of the sport or of the dish afterwards, excepting Teresina and Bastianello who whispered together as they followed last.  Ruggiero went in front carrying a lantern, and when they reached the pier it was he who put the party on board, made the skiff fast astern of the sailboat and jumped upon the stern, himself the last of all.

The night breeze was blowing in gusts off the shore, as it always does after a hot day in the summer, and Ruggiero took advantage of every puff of wind, while the men pulled in the intervals of calm.  The starlight was very bright and the air so clear that the lights of Naples shone out distinctly, the beginning of the chain of sparks that lies like a necklace round the sea from Posilippo to Castellamare.  The air was soft and dry, so that there was not the least moisture on the gunwale of the boat.  Every one was silent.

Then on a sudden there was a burst of music.  San Miniato had prepared it as a surprise, and the two musicians had passed unnoticed where they sat in the bows, hidden from sight by the foresail so soon as the boat was under way.  Only a mandolin and a guitar, but the best players of the whole neighbourhood.  It was very pretty, and the attempt to give pleasure deserved, perhaps, more credit than it received.

“It is charming, dearest friend!” was all the Marchesa vouchsafed to say, when the performers paused.

Beatrice sat stony and unmoved, and spoke no word.  She said to herself that San Miniato was again attempting to prepare the scenery for a comedy, and she could have laughed to think that he should still delude himself so completely.  Teresina would have clapped her hands in applause had she dared, but she did not, and contented herself with trying to see into Bastianello’s eyes.  She was very near him as she sat furthest forward in the stern-sheets and he pulled the starboard stroke oar, leaning forward upon the loom, as the gust filled the sails and the boat needed no pulling.

“You do not care for the mandolin, Donna Beatrice?” said San Miniato, with a sort of disappointed interrogation in his voice.

“Have I said that I do not care for it?” asked the young girl indifferently.  “You take too much for granted.”

Grim and silent on the stern sat Ruggiero, the tiller in his hand, his eye on the dark water to landward constantly on the look-out for the gusts that came down so quickly and which could deal treacherously with a light craft like the one he was steering.  But he had no desire to upset her to-night, nor even to bring the tiller down on his master’s head.  There was to be no bungling about the business he had in hand, no mistakes and no wasting of lives.

The mandolin tinkled and the guitar strummed vigorously as they neared Scutari point, vast, black and forbidding in the starlight.  But a gloom had settled upon the party which nothing could dispel.  It was as though the shadow of coming evil had overtaken them and were sweeping along with them across the dark and silent water.  There was something awful in the stillness under the enormous bluff, as Ruggiero gave the order to stop pulling and furl the sails, and he himself brought the skiff alongside by the painter, got in and kept her steady, laying his hand upon the gunwale of the larger boat.  Bastianello stood up to help Beatrice and Teresina.

“Will you come, Donna Beatrice?” asked San Miniato, wishing with all his heart that he had never proposed the excursion.

It seemed absurd to refuse after coming so far and the young girl got into the skiff, taking Ruggiero’s hand to steady herself.  It did not tremble to-night as it had trembled a few days ago.  Beatrice was glad, for she fancied that he was recovering from his insane passion for her.  Then San Miniato got over, rather awkwardly as he did everything so soon as he left the land.  Then Teresina jumped down, and last of all Bastianello.  So they shoved off and pulled away into the deep shadow under the bluffs.  There the cliff rises perpendicularly seven hundred feet out of the water, deeply indented at its base with wave-worn caves and hollows, but not affording a fast hold anywhere save on the broad ledge of the single islet of rock from which a high natural arch springs suddenly across the water to the abrupt precipice which forms the mountain’s base.

Calmly, as though it were an every-day excursion, Ruggiero lighted a torch and held it out when the boat was alongside of the rocks, showing the dark green crabs that lay by dozens motionless as though paralysed by the strong red glare.  And Bastianello picked them off and tossed them into the kettle at his feet, as fast as he could put out his hands to take them.  Teresina tried, too, but one almost bit her tender fingers and she contented herself with looking on, while San Miniato and Beatrice silently watched the proceedings from their place in the stern.

Little by little Ruggiero made the boat follow the base of the precipice, till she was under the natural arch.

“Pardon, Excellency,” he said quietly, “but the foreigners think this is a sight with the torches.  If you will go ashore on the ledge, I will show it you.”

The proposal seemed very natural under the circumstances, and as the operation of picking crabs off the rocks and dropping them into a caldron loses its interest when repeated many times, Beatrice immediately assented.

The larger boat was slowly following and the tinkle of the mandolin, playing waltz music, rang out through the stillness.  Ruggiero brought the skiff alongside of the ledge where it was lowest.

“Get ashore, Bastianello,” he said in the same quiet tone.  Bastianello obeyed and stood ready to help Beatrice, who came next.

As she stepped upon the rock Ruggiero raised the torch high with one hand, so that the red light fell strong and full upon her face, and he looked keenly at her, his eyes fixing themselves strangely, as she could see, for she could not help glancing down at him as she stood still upon the ledge.

“Now Teresina,” said Ruggiero, still gazing up at Beatrice.

Teresina grasped Bastianello’s hand and sprang ashore, happy as a child at the touch.  San Miniato was about to follow and had already risen from his seat.  But with a strong turn of his hand Ruggiero made the stern of the skiff swing out across the narrow water that is twenty fathoms deep between the mountain and the islet.

“What are you doing?” asked San Miniato impatiently.  “Let me land!”

But Ruggiero pushed the boat’s head off and she floated free between the rocks.

“You and I can take a bath together,” said the sailor very quietly.  “The water is very deep here.”

San Miniato started.  There was a sudden change in Ruggiero’s face.

“Land me!” cried the Count in a commanding tone.

“In hell!” answered the sailor’s deep voice.

At the same moment he dropped the torch, and seizing the bags of ballast that lay between his feet, hove them overboard, springing across the thwarts towards San Miniato as he let them go.  The line slipped to the side as the heavy weight sank and the boat turned over just as the strong man’s terrible fingers closed round his enemy’s throat in the darkness.  San Miniato’s death cry rent the still air ­there was a little splashing, and all was done.

So I have told my tale, such as it is, how Ruggiero of the Children of the King gave himself body and soul to free Beatrice Granmichele from a life’s bondage.  She wore mourning a whole year for her affianced husband, but the mourning in her heart was for the strong, brave, unreasoning man, who, utterly unloved, had given all for her sake, in this world and the next.

But when the year was over, Bastianello married Teresina, and took her to the home he had made for her by the sea ­a home in which she should be happy, and in which at least there can never be want, for Beatrice has settled money on them both, and they are safe from sordid poverty, at all events.

The Marchesa’s nerves were terribly shaken by the tragedy, but she has recovered wonderfully and still fans herself and smokes countless cigarettes through the long summer afternoon.

Of those left, Bastianello and Beatrice are the most changed ­both, perhaps, for the better.  The sailor is graver and sterner than before, but he still has the gentleness which was never his brother’s.  Beatrice has not yet learned the great lesson of love in her own heart, but she knows and will never forget what love can grow to be in another, for she has fathomed its deepest depth.

And now you will tell me that Ruggiero did wrong and was a great sinner, and a murderer, and a suicide, and old Luigione is sure that he is burning in unquenchable fire.  And perhaps he is, though that is a question neither you nor I can well decide.  But one thing I can say of him, and that you cannot deny.  He was a man, strong, whole-hearted, willing to give all, as he gave it, without asking.  And perhaps if some of us could be like Ruggiero in all but his end, we should be better than we are, and truer, and more worthy to win the love of woman and better able to keep it.  And that is all I have to say.  But when you stand upon the ledge by Scutari, if you ever say a prayer, say one for those two who suffered on that spot.  Beatrice does sometimes, though no one knows it, and prayers like hers are heard, perhaps, and answered.