And oh, beautiful demon angel, he thought, if you could but know how near you are to the avenger!  Why are you so anxious, my demon wife?  Are you impatient because your Italian is delaying?  Can you not live for five seconds longer without him?  Are you looking in all directions to see where he is?  Don’t fret; he’ll soon be here.

And now there came a confirmation of his thoughts.  He was not surprised; he knew it; he suspected it.  It was all as it should be.  Was it not in the confident expectation of this that he had come here with his dagger—­on their trail?

It was Girasole.

He came from the place, further along the shore, where the brigands were around their fires.  He was walking quickly.  He had a purpose.  It was with a renewed agony that Dacres watched his enemy—­coming to visit his wife.  The intensity of that thirst for vengeance, which had now to be checked until a better opportunity, made his whole frame tremble.  A wild desire came to him then and there to bound down upon his enemy, and kill and be killed in the presence of his wife.  But the other brigands deterred him.  These men might interpose and save the Italian, and make him a prisoner.  No; he must wait till he could meet his enemy on something like equal terms—­when he could strike a blow that would not be in vain.  Thus he overmastered himself.

He saw Girasole enter the house.  He watched breathlessly.  The time seemed long indeed.  He could not hear any thing; the conversation, if there was any, was carried on in a low tone.  He could not see any thing; those who conversed kept quiet; no one passed in front of the window.  It was all a mystery, and this made the time seem longer.  At length Dacres began to think that Girasole would not go at all.  A long time passed.  Hours went away, and still Girasole did not quit the house.

It was now sundown.  Dacres had eaten nothing since morning, but the conflict of passion drove away all hunger or thirst.  The approach of darkness was in accordance with his own gloomy wishes.  Twilight in Italy is short.  Night would soon be over all.

The house was on the slope of the bank.  At the corner nearest him the house was sunk into the ground in such a way that it looked as though one might climb into the upper story window.  As Dacres looked he made up his mind to attempt it.  By standing here on tiptoe he could catch the upper window-ledge with his hands.  He was strong.  He was tall.  His enemy was in the house.  The hour was at hand.  He was the man.

Another hour passed.

All was still.

There was a flickering lamp in the hall, but the men seemed to be asleep.

Another hour passed.

There was no noise.

Then Dacres ventured down.  He moved slowly and cautiously, crouching low, and thus traversing the intervening space.

He neared the house and touched it.  Before him was the window of the lower story.  Above him was the window of the upper story.  He lifted up his hands.  They could reach the window-ledge.