"Addio!" said Laurella, turning to the path that goes winding up the
cliffs. "Good-night!" he answered, without looking at her; and then
taking his oars and baskets from the boat, and climbing up the small
stone stairs, he went into his own hut.

He was alone in his two little rooms, and began to pace them up and
down. Cooler than upon the dead calm sea, the breeze blew fresh
through the small unglazed windows, which could only be closed with
wooden shutters. The solitude was soothing to him. He stooped before
the little image of the Virgin, devoutly gazing upon the glory round
the head (made of stars cut out in silver paper). But he did not
want to pray. What reason had he to pray, now that he had lost all
he had ever hoped for?

And this day appeared to last for ever. He did so long for night!
for he was weary, and more exhausted by the loss of blood than he
would have cared to own. His hand was very sore. Seating himself
upon a little stool, he untied the handkerchief that bound it; the
blood, so long repressed, gushed out again; all round the wound the
hand was swollen high.

He washed it carefully, cooling it in the water; then he clearly saw
the marks of Laurella's teeth.

"She was right," he said; "I was a brute, and deserved no better. I
will send her back the handkerchief by Giuseppe to-morrow. Never
shall she set eyes on me again." And he washed the handkerchief with
the greatest care, and spread it out in the sun to dry.