Vere moved impatiently.

"Really!" she began.

But she did not continue. The quivering voice began another verse.
Artois had said nothing, but, as he sat listening to this fervid
protestation, a message illuminated as it were by the vibrato, he
began to hate the terrible frankness of the Italian nature which, till
now, he had thought he loved. The beauty of reticence appealed to him
in a new way. There was savagery in a bellowed passion. The voice was
travelling. They heard it moving onward towards Nisida. Artois
wondered if Vere knew who was the singer. She did not leave him long
in doubt.

"Now's our chance, Monsieur Emile!" she said, suddenly, leaning
towards him. "Row to the island for your life, or the Marchesino will
catch us!"

Without a word he bent to the oars.

"How absurd the Marchesino is!"

Vere spoke aloud, released from fear.

"Absurd? He is Neapolitan."

"Very well, then! The Neapolitans are absurd!" said Vere, with
decision. "And what a voice! Ruffo doesn't sing like that. That
shaking sounds--sounds so artificial."