changefulness that denoted intelligence, but never lost the look of
force, of an almost tense masculinity ready to battle, perpetually
alive to hold its own.

The Marchesino was also very masculine, but in a different way and
more consciously than they were. He was not cultured, but such
civilization as he had endowed him with a power to catch the moods of
others not possessed by these men, in whom persistence was more
visible than adroitness, unless indeed any question of money was to
the fore.

"We shall get to the Giuseppone by eight, Emilio," the Marchesino
said, dropping his conversation with the men, which had been about the
best hour and place for their fishing. "Are you hungry?"

"I shall be," said Artois. "This wind brings an appetite with it. How
well you steer!"

The Marchesino nodded carelessly.

As the boat drew ever nearer to the point, running swiftly before the
light breeze, its occupants were silent. Artois was watching the
evening, with the eyes of a lover of nature, but also with the eyes of
one who takes notes. The Marchesino seemed to be intent on his
occupation of pilot. As to the two sailors, they sat in the accustomed
calm and staring silence of seafaring men, with wide eyes looking out
over the element that ministered to their wants. They saw it
differently, perhaps, from Artois, to whom it gave now an intense
aesthetic pleasure, differently from the Marchesino, to whom it was
just a path to possible excitement, possible gratification of a new