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Then the blood coursed through his veins like fire, and he
felt as if he could no longer sit still in the boat.
"Avanti! avanti!" he cried to the sailors. "Dio mio! There is enough
breeze to sail. Run up the sail! Madonna Santissima! We shall not be
to Naples till it is night. Avanti! avanti!"
Then he lay back, crossed his arms behind his head, and, with an
effort, closed his eyes.
He was determined to be calm, not to let himself go. He put his
fingers on his pulse.
"That cursed fever! I believe it is coming back," he said to himself.
He wondered how soon the Signora would arrange that dinner on the
island. He did not feel as if he could wait long without seeing Vere
again. But would it ever be possible to see her alone? Emilio saw her
alone. His white hairs brought him privileges. He might take her out
upon the sea.
The Marchesino still had his fingers on his pulse. Surely it was
fluttering very strangely. Like many young Italians he was a mixture
of fearlessness and weakness, of boldness and childishness.


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