their faces buried in their hands, were already asleep. But the boy,
sitting astride on the prow, with his bare feet dangling on each side
of it to the clear green water, was munching slowly, and rather
seriously, a hunch of yellow bread, from which he cut from time to
time large pieces with a clasp knife. As he ate, lifting the pieces of
bread to his mouth with the knife, against whose blade he held them
with his thumb, he stared down at the depths below, transparent here
almost to the sea bed. His eyes were wide with reverie. He seemed
another boy, not the gay singer of five minutes ago. But then he had
been in the blaze of the sun. Now he was in the shade. And swiftly he
had caught the influence of the dimmer light, the lack of motion, the
delicate hush at the feet of San Francesco.

This time he did not know that he was being watched. His reverie,
perhaps, was too deep, or their gaze less concentrated than it had
been before. And after a moment, Hermione moved away.

"You are going in, Madre?"

"Yes."

"Do you mind if I give something to that boy?"

"Do you mean money?"

"Oh no. But the poor thing's eating dry bread, and--"

"And what, you puss?"

"Well, he's a very obedient boy."