The Marchesino had told the two sailors that they could have an hour
or two of sleep before beginning to fish.

The men lay down, shut their eyes, and seemed to sleep at once. But
Artois and the Marchesino, lounging on a pile of rugs deftly arranged
in the bottom of the stern of the boat, smoked their cigars in a
silence laid upon them by the night silence of the Pool. Neither of
them had as yet caught sight of the figures of Vere and Ruffo, which
were becoming more clearly relieved as the moon rose and brought a
larger world within its radiance, of its light. Artois was satisfied
that the members of the Casa del Mare were in bed. As they approached
the house he had seen no light from its windows. The silence about the
islet was profound, and gave him the impression of being in the very
heart of the night. And this impression lasted, and so tricked his
mind that he forgot that the hour was not really late. He lay back,
lazily smoking his cigar, and drinking in the stark beauty round about
him, a beauty delicately and mysteriously fashioned by the night,
which, as by a miracle, had laid hold of bareness and barren ugliness,
and turned them to its exquisite purposes, shrinking from no material
in its certainty of its own power to transform.

The Marchesino, too, lay back, with his great, gray eyes staring about
him. While the feelings of his friend had moved towards satisfaction,
his had undergone a less pleasant change. His plan seemed to be going
awry, and he began to think of himself as of a fool. What had he
anticipated? What had he expected of this expedition? He had been, as
usual, politely waiting on destiny. He had come to the islet in the
hope that Destiny would meet him there and treat him with every
kindness and hospitality, forestalling his desires. But lo! He was
abandoned in a boat among a lot of taciturn men, while the object of