had been spoken of, particularly at the time when the painter had
been pressing his suit to Laurella. "I do not even know him," she
said indignantly, when the painter asked her whether it was for the
sake of that uncourteous lad she now refused him. But she had heard
that piece of gossip, and known Antonio well enough when she had met
him since.

And now they sat together in this boat, like two most deadly
enemies, while their hearts were beating fit to kill them. Antonio's
usually so good-humored face was heated to scarlet; he struck the
oars so sharply that the foam flew over to where Laurella sat, while
his lips moved as if muttering angry words. She pretended not to
notice, wearing her most unconscious look, bending over the edge of
the boat, and letting the cool water pass between her fingers. Then
she threw off her handkerchief again, and began to smooth her hair,
as though she had been alone. Only her eyebrows twitched, and she
held up her wet hands in vain attempts to cool her burning cheeks.

Now they were well out in the open sea. The island was far behind,
and the coast before them lay yet distant in the hot haze. Not a
sail was within sight, far or near--not even a passing gull to break
the stillness. Antonio looked all round, evidently ripening some
hasty resolution. The color faded suddenly from his cheek, and he
dropped his oars. Laurella looked round involuntarily--fearless, yet
attentive.

"I must make an end of this," the young fellow burst forth. "It has
lasted too long already! I only wonder that it has not killed me!
You say you do not know me? And all this time you must have seen me
pass you like a madman, my whole heart full of what I had to tell