The Count refused to listen to these protests. Even the suggestion that the cargo should be divided, and part left for a second voyage he scouted, “It will not do,” he said, “the poor people would fancy they were being left behind, and I am not at all sure that they would not be right. It is only too likely that if we once get to the other side we should _not_ come back. No! we will sink or swim together.” About an hour before noon on the fifteenth of the month, the crews were ready to weigh anchor. The Count and his daughter, who had just taken their last view of the villa which had been their home for so many years, were standing on the little jetty, ready to step into the boat that was to convey them to the ship. Carna and the old priest and his wife were with them, and the hour of farewell had come. Ælia, if she had not reconciled herself to separation from her sister, at least saw that it was inevitable, and was resolved not to make the parting bitterer than it must needs be. She affected a cheerfulness which she did not feel. “Good-bye, Carna,” she cried, throwing her arms round the girl’s neck. “Good-bye! now we are going like swallows in the autumn, and very likely shall come back like them in the spring. Meanwhile keep the nest as warm for us as you can.” “Remember, Carna,” said the Count, “that you have a home as long as either I or my daughter have a roof over our heads. You are doing your duty in staying, but there is a limit even to duty. As long as you can be of service, stop; I would not have it otherwise; but don’t sacrifice yourself and those that love you for nothing.” Carna’s heart was too full to let her speak. She caught the Count’s hands and kissed them. Then she turned to Ælia, and taking her gold cross and chain—the only ornament that she wore—hung it round her sister’s neck. When she had succeeded in choking down her sobs, she whispered, “Take this, and, if you will give me yours, we will bear each other’s crosses, and, perhaps, they will be a little lighter. But oh, how heavy!” “Kneel, my children,” said the old priest, and the little group knelt down, while the rowers in the boat uncovered their heads. After repeating the paternoster and a few simple words of prayer, he raised his hand and blessed them, then fell on his knees beside them. After two or three minutes of silent supplication the Count rose, and almost lifted his daughter into the boat, so broken down was she with the passion of her grief. Carna remained on her knees, her face buried in her hands. To have looked up and seen father and sister go was more than she dared to do. For the struggle that she fancied was over had begun again in her heart, and she could not feel sure even then that duty would prevail. The Count gently laid his hand upon her head and blessed her, then stepped into the boat. As the rowers dipped their oars in the water, a gleam of sunshine burst through the clouds, and lighted as with a glory the head of the kneeling girl.