grow, and ran regretfully back again, tracing myriads of tiny channels
where the sand was loose; but just as it had almost subsided, another
wave curled and uncurled itself, and trembled a moment, and flung its
whole volume forwards through a cloud of unresisting spray.

It had rained a little, too, and it would rain again. The sky was of an
even leaden grey, and as the sun rose unseen, a wicked glare came into
it, as if the lead were melting; and the wind howled unceasingly, the
soft, wet, southwest wind of the great spring storms.

Less than a mile from the shore a small brigantine, stripped to a lower
topsail, storm-jib, and balance-reefed mainsail, was trying to claw off
shore. She had small chance, unless the gale shifted or moderated, for
she evidently could not carry enough sail to make any way against the
huge sea, and to heave to would be sure destruction within two hours.

The scrub and brushwood were dripping with raindrops, and the salt spray
was blown up the bank with the loose sand. Everything was wet, grey, and
dreary, as only the Roman shore can be at such times, with that
unnatural dreariness of the south which comes down on nature suddenly
like a bad dream, and is a thousand times more oppressive than the stern
desolation of any northern sea-coast.

Marcello and Aurora watched the storm from a break in the bank which
made a little lee. The girl was wrapped in a grey military cloak, of
which she had drawn the hood over her loose hair. Her delicate nostrils
dilated with pleasure to breathe the salt wind, and her eyelids drooped
as she watched the poor little vessel in the distance.

"You like it, don't you?" asked Marcello, as he looked at her.