The men lay down, shut their eyes, and seemed to sleep at once. But
Artois and the Marchesino, lounging on a pile of rugs deftly arranged
in the bottom of the stern of the boat, smoked their cigars in a
silence laid upon them by the night silence of the Pool. Neither of
them had as yet caught sight of the figures of Vere and Ruffo, which
were becoming more clearly relieved as the moon rose and brought a
larger world within its radiance, of its light. Artois was satisfied
that the members of the Casa del Mare were in bed. As they approached
the house he had seen no light from its windows. The silence about the
islet was profound, and gave him the impression of being in the very
heart of the night. And this impression lasted, and so tricked his
mind that he forgot that the hour was not really late. He lay back,
lazily smoking his cigar, and drinking in the stark beauty round about
him, a beauty delicately and mysteriously fashioned by the night,
which, as by a miracle, had laid hold of bareness and barren ugliness,
and turned them to its exquisite purposes, shrinking from no material
in its certainty of its own power to transform.
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