“And the Signorina and the Count can sit together in the stern,” said Bastianello, who seemed much pleased with the arrangement.  “The best crabs are between Scutari and the natural arch.”

“One knows that,” assented Ruggiero, and relapsed into silence.

Presently the door of the cabin opened and Beatrice came out, her cheeks and eyes fresh and bright from the sea.  Of course Bastianello at once ran to help Teresina wring out the wet things and make up her bundle, and Beatrice came towards Ruggiero, who took off his cap and stood bareheaded in the sun as she went by, and then walked slowly behind her, at a respectful distance.  To reach the beginning of the ascent they had to make their way through the many boats hauled up beyond the slip upon the dry sand.  Beatrice gathered her light skirt in her hand as she passed Ruggiero’s newly painted skiff, for she was familiar enough with boats to know that the oil might still be fresh.

“It is quite dry, Excellency,” he said.  “The boat belongs to me.”

Beatrice turned with a smile, looked at it and then at Ruggiero.

“What did I tell you the other day, Ruggiero?” she asked, still smiling.  “You were to call me Signorina.  Do you remember?”

“Yes, Signorina.  I beg pardon.”

Beatrice saw that Teresina had not yet left the cabin with her bag, and that Bastianello was loitering before the door, pretending or really trying to help her.

“Do you know what Teresina has been telling me, Ruggiero?” asked Beatrice, stopping entirely and turning towards him as they stood in the narrow way between Ruggiero’s boat and the one lying next to her.

“Of Bastianello, Signorina?”

“Yes.  That she wants to marry him.  She told me while I was dressing.  You know?”

“Yes, Signorina, and I laughed when he told me the story the other day, over there on the pier.”

“I heard you laughing, Ruggiero,” answered Beatrice, remembering the unpleasant impression she had received when she had looked down from the terrace.  His huge mirth had come up as a sort of shock to her in the midst of her own trouble.  “Why did you laugh?” she asked.

“Must I tell you, Signorina?”

“Yes.”

“It was this.  Bastianello had a thought.  He imagined to himself that I loved Teresina—­I!—­”

Ruggiero broke off in the sentence and looked away.  His voice shook with the deep vibration that sometimes pleased Beatrice.  He paused a moment and then went on.

“I, who have quite other thoughts.  And so he said with himself, ‘Ruggiero loves and is afraid to speak, but I will speak for him.’  But it was honest of him, Signorina, for he loved her himself.  And so he asked her for me first.  But she would not.  And then, between one word and another, they found out that they loved.  And I am very glad, for Teresina is a good girl as she showed the other day in the garden, and the little boy of the Son of the Fool saw it when she threw the gold at that man’s feet—­”