She measured with a glance the distance from the shore. Then, without saying a word, she swam to the boat, and seized the gunwale. He moved across to help her; his jacket, which was lying on the seat, slid off into the sea as the boat heeled over with the girl's weight. She swung herself lithely up, and regained her former seat. When he saw her safe, he seized the oars again. But she spread out her dripping garments and wrung the water from her hair. As she did it, she glanced at the flooring of the boat, and saw the blood; then she cast a hasty look at his hand, which wielded the oar as unwounded. "There," she said, and reached him her handkerchief. He shook his head and rowed onwards. At last she rose, stepped over to him, and bound the handkerchief tightly over the deep wound. Then, in spite of his resistance, she took one of the oars from him, and seating herself opposite to him, though without looking at him, her gaze fixed on oar reddened with his blood, helped on the boat with vigorous strokes. They were both pale and silent. As they neared the land they met the fishermen who were moving to sea to cast their nets for the night. They greeted Antonino, and laughed at Lauretta: neither of them answered a word. The sun was still high over Procida when they reached the marina. Lauretta shook her gown, now nearly dried, and sprang on shore. The old spinning woman who had seen them start in the morning stood again on her roof. "What is the matter with your hand, 'Tonino?" she called down to him. "Jesus! the boat is swimming in blood!" "'Tis nothing, Commare," answered the young man; "I tore it on a nail that stuck out too far. It will be well by to-morrow. The blood is only near the hand, and that makes it look worse than it is." "I will come and put some herbs upon it, Comparello. Wait, I will be down with you directly." "Don't trouble yourself, Commare; it is all over now and to-morrow it will be gone and forgotten. I have a good skin that soon grows over a wound." "Addio!" said Lauretta, turning towards the path that led up from the beach. "Good night," called the fisherman after her, without looking towards her. Then he took his tackle out of the boat, and his baskets, and strode up the narrow stone steps to his hut. CHAPTER III. There was no one but himself in the two rooms, through which he now paced to and fro. Through the unglazed windows, only closed by wooden shutters, the wind blew in still more refreshingly than on the calm sea, and the solitude pleased him. He paused before the little picture of the Virgin, and gazed thoughtfully at the silver paper star-glory pasted around it. Yet he thought not of prayer. For what should he pray now, when he had nothing more to hope for! And to-day the sun seemed to stand still.