"It was not my fault, signora!" he cried, hotly. "I wanted to go. I
begged to go, but the padrone would not let me."
"Why not?"
Hermione, peering in the darkness, thought she saw the ugly look come
again into the boy's face.
"Why not, signora?"
"Yes, why not?"
"He wished me to stay with you. He said: 'Stay with the padrona, Gaspare.
She will be all alone.'"
"Did he? Well, Gaspare, it is not your fault. But I never thought it was.
You know that."
She had heard in his voice that he was hurt.
"Come! We must go on!"
Her fear was now tangible. It had a definite form, and with every moment
it grew greater in the night, towering over her, encompassing her about.
For she had hoped to meet Maurice coming up the ravine, and, with each
moment that went by, her hope of hearing his footstep decreased, her
conviction that something untoward must have occurred grew more solid.
Only once was her terror abated. When they were not far from the mouth of
the ravine Gaspare suddenly seized her arm from behind.
"Gaspare! What is it?" she said, startled.
He held up one hand.
"Zitta!" he whispered.
Hermione listened, holding her breath. It was a silent night, windless
and calm. The trees had no voices, the watercourse was dry, no longer
musical with the falling stream. Even the sea was dumb, or, if it were
not, murmured so softly that these two could not hear it where they
stood. And now, in this dark silence, they heard a faint sound. It was
surely a foot-fall upon stones. Yes, it was.
By the fierce joy that burst up in her heart Hermione measured her
previous fear.
"It's he! It's the padrone!"
She put her face close to Gaspare's and whispered the words. He nodded.
His eyes were shining.
"Andiamo!" he whispered back.
With a boy's impetuosity he wished to rush on and meet the truant pilgrim
from the sea, but Hermione held him back. She could not bear to lose that
sweet sound, the foot-fall on the stones, coming nearer every moment.
"No. Let's wait for him here! Let's give him a surprise."
"Va bene!"
His body was quivering with suppressed movement. But they waited. The
step was slow, or so it seemed to Hermione as she listened again, like
the step of a tired man. Maurice seldom walked like that, she thought. He
was light-footed, swift. His actions were ardent as were his eyes. But it
must be he! Of course it was he! He was languid after a long swim, and
was walking slowly for fear of getting hot. That must be it. The walker
drew nearer, the crunch of the stones was louder under his feet.