and up by winding paths to a mountain, and into a little room in a
tiny, whitewashed house, not the house of the sea, but of the priest.
It still stood there, and the terrace was still before it. And the
olive-trees rustled, perhaps, just now in the wind beneath the stars.

Yes, she was there. Lucrezia and Gaspare were in bed. But she and
Maurice were sitting in the straw chairs on each side of the table,
facing the open French window and the flight of shallow steps that led
down to the terrace.

Faintly she heard the whisper of the sea about the islet, but she
would not let it hinder her imagination: she translated it by means of
her imagination into the whisper of the wind low down there, in the
ravine among the trees. And that act made her think of the ravine,
seemed presently to set her in the ravine. She was there in the night
with Gaspare. They were hurrying down towards the sea. He was behind
her, and she could hear his footsteps--longing to go faster. But she
was breathless, her heart was beating, there was terror in her soul.
What was that? A rattle of stones in the darkness, and then an old
voice muttering "Benedicite!"

She opened her eyes and moved suddenly, like one intolerably stirred.
What a foe the imagination can be--what a foe! She got up and went to
the window. She must drive away that memory of the ravine, of all that
followed after. Often she lingered with it, but to-night, somehow, she
could not, she dared not. She was less brave than usual to-night.

She leaned out of the window.

"Am I a fool?"