On the other side of the bay two women waited for news. Mary was uneasy and depressed. The excessive heat of the summer frightened her. It was during such a summer that little Willie had died, and she looked at the baby in her arms with terror. He seemed certainly in the best of health, nevertheless, standing on the terrace gazing on one of the most lovely views in the world, she was oppressed with wretchedness. Her eyes kept filling with tears she knew not why. “Yet,” thought she, “when he, when my Shelley returns, I shall be happy—he will comfort me; if my boy be ill, he will restore him and encourage me.” On the Monday, Jane had a letter from her husband dated Saturday. He said that Shelley was still detained at Pisa, “but if he should not come by Monday, I will come in a felucca, and you may expect me on Thursday evening at furthest.” This Monday was the fatal Monday, the day of the storm. But Mary and Jane never imagined for a moment that the _Ariel_ could have put to sea in such weather. On Tuesday it rained all day, and the sea was calm. On Wednesday the wind was fair from Leghorn, and several feluccas arrived thence. The skipper of one of these said that the _Ariel_ had sailed on the Monday, but neither Jane nor Mary believed him. Thursday was another day of fair wind, and the two women kept continuous watch from the terrace. Every instant they hoped to see the tall sails of the little boat double the promontory. At midnight they were still watching and still without any sight of the boat, and they began to fear—not the truth—but that some illness, some disagreeable occurrence, had detained their husbands in Leghorn. As the hours went on, Jane became so miserable that she determined to hire a boat next day and go to Leghorn herself. But next day brought with it a heavy sea and a contrary wind. No boatman would venture out. At midday came letters. There was one from Hunt for Shelley. Mary opened it trembling all over. Hunt said: “Pray write to tell us how you got home, for they say that you had bad weather after you sailed on Monday, and we are anxious.” The letter fell from her hands. Jane picked it up, read it, and said, “Then it is all over!” “No, my dear Jane, it is not all over, but this suspense is dreadful! Come with me—we will go to Leghorn. We will post to be swift and learn our fate.” The road from Lerici to Leghorn passes by Pisa. They stopped at Lord Byron’s house to see if there was any news. They knocked at the door, and some one called out “Chi è?” for it was already late in the evening. It was the Guiccioli’s maid. Lord Byron was in bed, but the Countess, all smiles, came down to meet them. On seeing the terrifying aspect of Mary’s face, very white, looking like marble, she stopped astonished. “Where is he? Sapete alcuna cosa di Shelley?” said Mary. Byron who followed his _dama_ knew nothing more than that Shelley had left Pisa the preceding Sunday, and had sailed on Monday in bad weather.