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A silky sound--far off--checked that imaginative descent that seemed
so physical, first merely arrested it, then, always silky, but growing
louder, took her swiftly and softly back to the summit she had left.
Now she was conscious again of herself and of the night. She was
listening. The sound that had broken her reverie was the gentle sweep
of big-bladed oars through the calm sea. As she knew this she saw,
away to the right, a black shadow stealing across the silver waste
beyond the islet. It pushed its way to the water at her very feet, and
chose that as its anchorage.
The figure of the rower stood up straight and black for a moment,
looking lonely in the night.
Vere could not see his face, but she knew at once that he was Ruffo.
Her inclination was to bend down with the soft cry of "Pescator!"
which she had sent to him on the sunny morning of their meeting. She
checked it, why she scarcely knew, in obedience to some imperious
prompting of her nature. But she kept her eyes on him.


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