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"Yes."
Artois gazed at the boat. Was it indeed a Fate that came by night to
the island softly across the sea, ferried by the ignorant hands of
men? He longed to know. And Hermione longed to know something, too:
whether Artois had ever seen the strange likeness she had seen,
whether Maurice had ever seemed to gaze for a moment at him out of the
eyes of Ruffo. But to-night she could not ask him that. They were too
far away from each other. And because of the gulf between them her
memory had suddenly become far more sacred, far more necessary to her
even, than it had been before.
It had been a solace, a beautiful solace. But now it was much more
than that--now it was surely her salvation.
As she felt that, a deep longing filled her heart to look again on
Ruffo's face, to search again for the expression that sent back the
years. But she wished to do that without witnesses, to be alone with
the boy, as she had been alone with him that night upon the bridge.
And suddenly she was impatient of Vere's intercourse with him.


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