“You probably do not know, Ghita,” he said, “the use those stars may be, and are, to us mariners.  By their aid, we are enabled to tell where we are, in the midst of the broadest oceans—­to know the points of the compass, and to feel at home even when furthest removed from it.  The seaman must go far south of the equator, at least, ere he can reach a spot where he does not see the same stars that he beheld from the door of his father’s house.”

“That is a new thought to me,” answered Ghita, quickly, her tender nature at once struck with the feeling and poetry of such an idea; “that is a new thought to me, Raoul, and I wonder you never mentioned it before.  It is a great thing to be able to carry home and familiar objects with you when so distant from those you love.”

“Did you never hear that lovers have chosen an hour and a star, by gazing at which they might commune together, though separated by oceans and countries.”

“That is a question you might put to yourself, Raoul; all I have ever heard of lovers and love having come from your own lips.”

“Well, then, I tell it you, and hope that we shall not part again without selecting our star and our hour—­if, indeed, we ever part more.  Though I have forgotten to tell you this, Ghita, it is because you are never absent from my thoughts—­no star is necessary to recall Monte Argentaro and the Towers.”

If we should say Ghita was not pleased with this, it would be to raise her above an amiable and a natural weakness.  Raoul’s protestations never fell dead on her heart, and few things were sweeter to her ear than his words as they declared his devotedness and passion.  The frankness with which he admitted his delinquencies, and most especially the want of that very religious sentiment which was of so much value in the eyes of his mistress, gave an additional weight to his language when he affirmed his love.  Notwithstanding Ghita blushed as she now listened, she did not smile; she rather appeared sad.  For near a minute she made no reply; and when she did answer, it was in a low voice, like one who felt and thought intensely.

“Those stars may well have a higher office,” she said.  “Look at them, Raoul;—­count them we cannot, for they seem to start out of the depths of heaven, one after another, as the eye rests upon the space, until they mock our efforts at calculation.  We see they are there in thousands, and may well believe they are in myriads.  Now thou hast been taught, else couldst thou never be a navigator, that those stars are worlds like our own, or suns with worlds sailing around them; how is it possible to see and know this without believing in a God and feeling the insignificance of our being?”

“I do not deny that there is a power to govern all this, Ghita—­but I maintain that it is a principle; not a being, in our shape and form; and that it is the reason of things, rather than a deity.”