She spoke to the boat boy. He answered. They fell into conversation. She asked him about his family, his life, whether he would have to be a soldier; whether he had a sweetheart. She forced herself to listen attentively to his replies. He was a responsive boy and soon began to talk volubly, letting the oars trail idly in the water. With energy he paraded his joyous youth before her. Even in his touches of melancholy there was hope. His happiness confirmed her in her resolution. She put herself in contrast with this boy, and her heart sank below the sources of tears into a dry place, like the valley of bones. “Will you turn towards Casa Feli--towards the house now,” she said presently. The boat swung round, and instantly the boy began to sing. “Yes, I can do it to-night,” she thought. His happy singing entered like iron into her soul. When the pale facade of Casa Felice was visible once more, detaching itself from the surrounding darkness, she said to the boy carelessly: “Where do you put the boat at night?” “The signora has not seen?” “No.” “Under the house. There is deep water there. One can swim for five minutes without coming out into the open.” “I should like to see that place. Can I get out of the boat there?” “Si, signora. There is a staircase leading into the piazza by the waterfall.” “Then row in.” “Si, signora.” He was beginning to sing again, but suddenly he stopped, looked over his shoulder and listened. “What is it?” she asked quickly. “There is a boat, signora.” “Where.” She looked into the darkness but saw nothing. “Close to the house, signora.” “But how do you know?” “I heard the oars. The man in the boat was not rowing, but just as I began to sing he began to row. When I stopped singing he stopped rowing.” “You didn’t see the boat?” “No, signora. It carries no light.” He looked at her mysteriously. “_It may be the contrabbandieri_.” “Smugglers?” “Yes.” He turned his head over his shoulder and whistled, in a peculiar way. There was no reply. Then he bent down over the gunwale of the boat till his ear nearly touched the water, and listened. “The boat has stopped. It must be near us.” His whole body seemed quivering with attentive life, like a terrier’s when it stands to be unchained. “Might it not be a fisherman?” asked Lady Holme. He shook his head. “This is not the hour.” “Some tourists, perhaps, making an excursion?” “It is too far. They never come here at night.” His eyes stared, his attitude was so intensely alert and his manner so mysterious that, despite her desperate preoccupation, Lady Holme found herself distracted for a moment. Her mind was detached from herself, and fixed upon this hidden boat and its occupant or occupants. “You think it is _contrabbandieri_?” she whispered. He nodded. “I have been one, signora.” “You!” “Yes, when I was a boy, in the winter. Once, when we were running for the shore, on a December night, the _carabinieri_ fired on us and killed Gaetano Cremona.”