all his thoughts and pains, his plots and hopes, was, doubtless,
hermetically sealed in the home on the cliff above him.

Several Neapolitan words, familiar in street circles, ran through his
mind, but did not issue from his lips, and his face remained perfectly
calm--almost seraphic in expression.

Out of the corners of his eyes he stole a glance at "caro Emilio." He
wished his friend would follow the example of the men and go to sleep.
He wanted to feel himself alone in wakefulness and unobserved. For he
was not resigned to an empty fate. The voices of the laughing women at
the Antico Giuseppone still rang through his memory. He was
adventurous by nature. What he would do if Emilio would only slumber
he did not know. But it was certain he would do something. The islet,
dark and distinct in outline beneath the moon, summoned him. Was he a
Neapolitan and not beneath her window? It was absurd. And he was not
at all accustomed to control himself or to fight his own impulses. For
the moment "caro Emilio" became "maledetto Emilio" in his mind.
Sleepless as Providence, Emilio reclined there. A slightly distracted
look came into the Marchesino's eyes as he glanced away from his
friend and stared once more at the islet, which he longed so ardently
to invade.

This time he saw the figures of Vere and Ruffo above him in the
moonlight, which now sharply relieved them. He gazed. And as he gazed
they moved away from the bridge, going towards the seat where Vere had
been before she had seen Ruffo.

Vere had on a white dress.