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Updated: June 17, 2025
He brought it, and it is he that must take it away. Do not touch it, Signorina. Do not touch it, Signore. Leave it where it is till Ruffo comes, till Ruffo takes it away." He again made the sign of the cross, and drew back from the death-charm with a sort of mysterious caution. "Signore," he said to Artois, "I will go down to the Saint's Pool. I will find Ruffo. I will bring him here.
While he had been on the crest of the island an idea had come to him. At first he had put it from him. Now, suddenly, he caressed it, he resolved to act on its prompting. "Ruffo, the Signora is in the house." "Si, Signore." "I don't think she is very well. I don't think she will leave the house to-night. Wouldn't you like to see her?" "Signore, I always like to see the Signora."
Don Gaspare has never said I was like somebody." The boy had evidently finished what he had to say. He stood quietly by Hermione, waiting for her to speak in her turn. For a moment she said nothing. Then she put her hand on Ruffo's arm. "Whom do you think your mother meant when she said 'somebody, Ruffo?" "Signora, I do not know." "But surely didn't you ask whom she meant?" "No, Signora.
Hermione was still governed by the desire to be alone for a little while with Ruffo, and the sensation of intense reserve a reserve that seemed even partially physical that she felt towards Artois made her dislike Ruffo's public exhibition of a gratitude that, expressed in private, would have been sweet to her.
Artois felt uneasy. He wished Hermione were less generous-hearted, less impulsive. She looked on him as a guide, a check. He knew that. But this time he would not exercise his prerogative. Ruffo he did not mind at least he thought he did not. The boy was a sea creature. He might even be an inspiring force to Vere. Something Artois had read had taught him that.
She wondered, because she felt in it something peculiar, a sort of heat and anxiety, a restlessness, a watchfulness; attributes which sprang from the observation of that resemblance to the dead man which drew her mother to Ruffo, but of which her mother had never spoken to her. Nor did Hermione speak of it again to Gaspare.
Then she lifted it up. The paroxysm seemed to have passed. She took out a handkerchief from inside the bodice of her dress and dried her eyes. Ruffo struck the table with his glass. An attendant came. He paid the bill, and the woman and he got up to go.
And she remembered her conversation with Ruffo. Actualities rushed back upon her memory. She felt as if she heard them coming like an army to the assault. Her brain was crowded with jostling thoughts, her heart with jostling feelings and fears. She was like one trying to find a safe path through a black troop of threatening secrets. What had happened that night between Vere and Emile?
Ruffo all was in the hands of Ruffo, to whom Hermione, weeping, bent for consolation. The song died away. Yet Hermione did not move, but still leaned over the sea. She scarcely knew where she was. The soul of her, the suffering soul, was voyaging through the mist with Ruffo, was voyaging through the mist and through the night with her Sicilian and all the perfect past.
Then the inhabitants of the house on the islet were not asleep, were not even in bed. They she at least, and that was all he cared for were out enjoying the moon and the sea. How favorable was the night! But who was with her? The Marchesino had very keen eyes. And now he used them with almost fierce intensity. But Ruffo was on the far side of Vere.
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