Ruggiero sat on the box and waited, meditating upon the probable occupations of gentlemen who habitually slept till ten o’clock in the morning and sometimes till twelve.  From time to time he brushed an almost imperceptible particle of dust from his very smart blue cloth knees, and settled the in-turned collar of the perfectly new blue guernsey about his neck.  It was new, and it scratched him disagreeably, but it was highly necessary to present a prosperous as well as a seamanlike appearance on such an important occasion.  Nothing could have been more becoming to him than the dark close-fitting dress, showing as it did the immense breadth and depth of his chest, the clean-cut sinewy length of his limbs and the easy grace and strength of his whole carriage.  His short straight fair hair was brushed, too, and his young yellow beard had been recently trimmed.  Altogether a fine figure of a man as he sat there waiting.

Suddenly he was aware of a wonderful vision moving towards him down the broad corridor—­a lovely dark face with liquid brown eyes, an exquisite figure clad in a well-fitted frock of white serge, a firm, smooth step that was not like any step he had ever heard.  He rose quickly as she passed him, and the blood rushed to his face, up to the very roots of his hair.

Beatrice was too much of a woman not to see the effect she produced upon the poor sailor, and she nodded gracefully to him, in acknowledgment of his politeness in rising.  As she did so she noticed on her part that the poor sailor was indeed a very remarkable specimen of a man, such as she had not often seen.  She stopped and spoke to him.

“Are you the Count of San Miniato’s boatman?” she asked in her sweet voice.

“Yes, Eccellenza,” answered Ruggiero, still blushing violently

“Then he has engaged the boat?  We want a boat, too—­the Marchesa di Mola—­can you get us one?”

“There is my brother, Eccellenza.”

“Is he a good sailor?”

“Better than I, Eccellenza.”

Beatrice looked at the figure before her and smiled graciously.

“Send him to us at twelve o’clock,” she said.  “The Marchesa di Mola—­do not forget.”

“Yes, Eccellenza.”

Ruggiero bowed respectfully, while Beatrice nodded again and passed on.  Then he sat down again and waited, but his fingers no longer moved in calculations and his expression had changed.  He sat still and stared in the direction of the corner beyond which the young girl had disappeared.  He was conscious for the first time in his life that he possessed a heart, for the thing thumped and kicked violently under his blue guernsey, and he looked down at his broad chest with an odd expression of half-childish curiosity, fully expecting to see an outward and visible motion corresponding with the inward hammering.  But he saw nothing.  Solid ribs and solid muscles kept the obstreperous machine in its place.

“Malora!” he ejaculated to himself.  “Worse than a cat in a sack!”