She moved on slowly, almost furtively. She felt inclined
to creep.
Would Ruffo be at the island to-night? Would Artois really come? It
seemed unlikely, almost impossible. But if Ruffo were there, if Artois
came, it would be fatality. That she was there was fatality.
She walked always slowly, always furtively, to the crest of the cliff.
She stood there. She listened.
Silence.
She felt as if she were quite alone on the island. She could scarcely
believe that Vere, that Gaspare, that the servants were there--among
them Peppina with her cross.
They said Peppina had the evil eye. Had she perhaps cast a spell
to-night?
Hermione did not smile at such an imagination as she dismissed it.
She waited and listened, but not actively, for she did not feel as if
Ruffo could ever stand with her in the embrace of such a night, he, a
boy, with bright hopes and eager longings, he the happy singer of the
song of Mergellina.
And yet, when in a moment she found him standing by her side, she
accepted his presence as a thing inevitable.
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