To the right, below us, the wide, smoky bay was empty.  Dominic had kept his word.  There was not a chip to be seen around the black rock from which the Tremolino, with her plucky heart crushed at one blow, had slipped off into deep water to her eternal rest.  The vastness of the open sea was smothered in driving mists, and in the centre of the thinning squall, phantom-like, under a frightful press of canvas, the unconscious guardacosta dashed on, still chasing to the northward.  Our men were already descending the reverse slope to look for that punt which we knew from experience was not always to be found easily.  I looked after them with dazed, misty eyes.  One, two, three, four.

“Dominic, where’s Cesar?” I cried.

As if repulsing the very sound of the name, the Padrone made that ample, sweeping, knocking-down gesture.  I stepped back a pace and stared at him fearfully.  His open shirt uncovered his muscular neck and the thick hair on his chest.  He planted the oar upright in the soft soil, and rolling up slowly his right sleeve, extended the bare arm before my face.

“This,” he began, with an extreme deliberation, whose superhuman restraint vibrated with the suppressed violence of his feelings, “is the arm which delivered the blow.  I am afraid it is your own gold that did the rest.  I forgot all about your money.”  He clasped his hands together in sudden distress.  “I forgot, I forgot,” he repeated disconsolately.

“Cesar stole the belt?” I stammered out, bewildered.

“And who else?  Canallia!  He must have been spying on you for days.  And he did the whole thing.  Absent all day in Barcelona.  Traditore!  Sold his jacket—­to hire a horse.  Ha! ha!  A good affair!  I tell you it was he who set him at us. . . .”

Dominic pointed at the sea, where the guardacosta was a mere dark speck.  His chin dropped on his breast.

“. . .  On information,” he murmured, in a gloomy voice.  “A Cervoni!  Oh! my poor brother! . . .”

“And you drowned him,” I said feebly.

“I struck once, and the wretch went down like a stone—­with the gold.  Yes.  But he had time to read in my eyes that nothing could save him while I was alive.  And had I not the right—­I, Dominic Cervoni, Padrone, who brought him aboard your fellucca—­my nephew, a traitor?”

He pulled the oar out of the ground and helped me carefully down the slope.  All the time he never once looked me in the face.  He punted us over, then shouldered the oar again and waited till our men were at some distance before he offered me his arm.  After we had gone a little way, the fishing hamlet we were making for came into view.  Dominic stopped.

“Do you think you can make your way as far as the houses by yourself?” he asked me quietly.

“Yes, I think so.  But why?  Where are you going, Dominic?”