we do as the fishermen, Emilio?"

There was no pressure in his careless voice. His eyes for the moment
looked so simple, though as eager as a child's.

"Anything you like, mon ami," said Artois.

He did not want to go to San Francesco's Pool with the Marchesino, but
he did not wish to seem reluctant to go. And he said to himself now
that his interior hesitation was absurd. Night had fallen. By the time
they reached the Pool the inmates of the Case del Mare would probably
be asleep. Even if they were not, what did it matter? The boat would
lie among the vessels of the fishermen. The Marchesino and he would
share the fishermen's repose. And even if Hermione and Vere should
chance to be out of doors they would not see him, or, if they did,
would not recognize him in the night.

His slight uneasiness, prompted by a vague idea that the Marchesino
was secretly mischievous, had possibly some plan in his mind connected
with the islet, was surely without foundation.

He told himself so as the fisherman laid hold of their oars and set
the boat's prow towards the point of land which conceals the small
harbor of the Villa Rosebery.

The shrill voices of the two singers died away from their ears, but
lingered in the memory of the Marchesino, as the silence of the sea
took the boat to itself, the sea silence and the magic of the moon.

He turned his face towards the silver, beyond which, hidden as yet,