“What are you doing?” asked San Miniato impatiently.  “Let me land!”

But Ruggiero pushed the boat’s head off and she floated free between the rocks.

“You and I can take a bath together,” said the sailor very quietly.  “The water is very deep here.”

San Miniato started.  There was a sudden change in Ruggiero’s face.

“Land me!” cried the Count in a commanding tone.

“In hell!” answered the sailor’s deep voice.

At the same moment he dropped the torch, and seizing the bags of ballast that lay between his feet, hove them overboard, springing across the thwarts towards San Miniato as he let them go.  The line slipped to the side as the heavy weight sank and the boat turned over just as the strong man’s terrible fingers closed round his enemy’s throat in the darkness.  San Miniato’s death cry rent the still air—­there was a little splashing, and all was done.

* * * * *

So I have told my tale, such as it is, how Ruggiero of the Children of the King gave himself body and soul to free Beatrice Granmichele from a life’s bondage.  She wore mourning a whole year for her affianced husband, but the mourning in her heart was for the strong, brave, unreasoning man, who, utterly unloved, had given all for her sake, in this world and the next.

But when the year was over, Bastianello married Teresina, and took her to the home he had made for her by the sea—­a home in which she should be happy, and in which at least there can never be want, for Beatrice has settled money on them both, and they are safe from sordid poverty, at all events.

The Marchesa’s nerves were terribly shaken by the tragedy, but she has recovered wonderfully and still fans herself and smokes countless cigarettes through the long summer afternoon.

Of those left, Bastianello and Beatrice are the most changed—­both, perhaps, for the better.  The sailor is graver and sterner than before, but he still has the gentleness which was never his brother’s.  Beatrice has not yet learned the great lesson of love in her own heart, but she knows and will never forget what love can grow to be in another, for she has fathomed its deepest depth.

And now you will tell me that Ruggiero did wrong and was a great sinner, and a murderer, and a suicide, and old Luigione is sure that he is burning in unquenchable fire.  And perhaps he is, though that is a question neither you nor I can well decide.  But one thing I can say of him, and that you cannot deny.  He was a man, strong, whole-hearted, willing to give all, as he gave it, without asking.  And perhaps if some of us could be like Ruggiero in all but his end, we should be better than we are, and truer, and more worthy to win the love of woman and better able to keep it.  And that is all I have to say.  But when you stand upon the ledge by Scutari, if you ever say a prayer, say one for those two who suffered on that spot.  Beatrice does sometimes, though no one knows it, and prayers like hers are heard, perhaps, and answered.