He was very calm and quiet throughout that day, busying himself from time to time with some detail of the preparations for the evening’s excursion, but sitting for the most part alone, far out on the breakwater where the breeze was blowing and the light surf breaking just high enough to wet his face from time to time with fine spray.  He had made up his mind, and he calmly thought over all that he meant to do, that it might be well done, quickly and surely, without bungling.  To-morrow, he would not be sitting out there, breathing in the keen salt air and listening to the music of the surging water, which was the only harmony he had ever loved.

His was a very faithful and simple nature, and since he had loved Beatrice, it had been even further simplified.  He thought only of her, he had but one object, which was to serve her, and all he did must tend to the attainment of that one result.  Now, too, he had seen with his eyes and had understood in other ways that she was to be married against her will to a man she hated and despised, and who was already betraying her.  He did not try to understand how it all was, but his instinct told him that she had been tricked into saying the words she had spoken to San Miniato at Tragara, and that she had never meant them.  That at least was more comprehensible to him than it might have been to a man of Beatrice’s own class.  Her head had been turned for a moment, as Ruggiero would have said, and afterwards she had understood the truth.  He had heard many stories of the kind from his companions.  Women were changeable, of course.  Every one knew that.  And why?  Because men were bad and tempted them, and moreover because they were so made.  He did not love Beatrice for any moral quality she might or might not possess, he was far too human, and natural and too little educated to seek reasons for the passion that devoured him.  Since he felt it, it was real.  What other proof of its reality could he need?  It never entered his head to ask for any, and his heart would not have beaten more strongly or less rudely for twenty reasons, on either side.

And now he was strangely happy and strangely calm as he sat there by himself.  Beatrice could never love him.  The mere idea was absurd beyond words.  How could she love a common man like himself?  But she did not love San Miniato either, and unless something were done quickly she would be forced into marrying him.  Of course a mother could make her daughter marry whom she pleased.  Ruggiero knew that.  The only way of saving Beatrice was to make an end of San Miniato, and that was a very simple matter indeed.  San Miniato would be but a poor thing in those great hands of Ruggiero’s, though he was a well grown man and still young and certainly stronger than the average of fine gentlemen.