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He had superintended her bathing when she was little. He had taught her to swim. And with no one else would he ever trust his Padroncina when she gave herself to the sea. Sometimes he would row her out to a reef of rocks in the open water not too many yards from the island, and she would dive from them. Sometimes, if it was very hot, he would take her to the Grotto of Virgil.
Nobody thinks anything of what children say. People only laugh and say 'Ecco, it's a baby talking. But when we are older it is all different. People pay attention to us. We are of more importance then." He did not mention Ruffo. He was too delicate to do that, for instinctively he understood how childish his Padroncina still was. And, at that moment, Vere did not think of Ruffo.
At that moment, if she had translated her impulse into an action, Hermione would have given Gaspare a good hug just for being himself; for being always the same: honest, watchful, perfectly fearless, perfectly natural, and perfectly determined to take care of his Padrona and his Padroncina.
Gaspare looked at his Padroncina with an attempt at reprobation; but his nose twitched, and though he tried to compress his lips they began to stretch themselves in a smile. "Signorina! Signorina!" he exclaimed. "Madonna!" On that exclamation he went out, trying to make his back look condemnatory. "Only Don Emilio!" Artois repeated. Vere went to him, and took and held his hand for a moment.
He was standing up in the boat with the oars in his hands, ready to make a dash at his Padroncina directly she reappeared, but she was wily, and came up behind the boat with a shrill cry that startled him. He looked round reproachfully over his shoulder. "Signorina," he said, turning the boat round, "you are like a wicked baby to-day."
"Madre, may I stand on my chair?" "Of course, Signorina. Look! Others are standing!" Gaspare helped his Padroncina up, then took his place beside her, and stood like a sentinel. Artois had never liked him better than at that moment. Hermione, who looked rather tired, sat down on her chair.
But it passed, and in the early morning he stood in the corner of the Campo Santo where Protestants were buried, and threw flowers from his father's terreno into an open grave. And once more his Padrona was alone. Far away from Sicily, from his "Paese," among the great woods of the Abetone he received for the first time into his untutored arms his Padroncina. His Padrone was gone from him forever.
His Padrona had cast upon him a look of hatred. Yet he was guarding the sacred house and her within it. Deep in the blood of him was the sense that, even hating him, she belonged to him and he to her. And his Padroncina had trusted him, had clung to him that day. "What are you going to do here?" "If there is trouble here, I want to help." "How can you help, Signore?"
He made her sit down. He stood by her. "What shall we do, Gaspare? What shall we do?" She looked up at him, demanding counsel. She put out her hands again and touched his arm. His Padroncina she at least still loved, still trusted him. "Signorina," he said, "we can't do anything." His voice was fatalistic. "But what is it? Is is " A frightful question was trembling on her lips.
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