Beatrice stepped aside and beckoned the two men to her.  To Ruggiero’s infinite surprise, he again felt the blood rushing to his face, and his heart began to pound his ribs like a fuller’s hammer.  He glanced at his brother and saw that he was perfectly self-possessed.  Beatrice looked from one to the other in perplexity.

“You are so much alike!” she exclaimed.  “With which of you did I speak this morning?”

“With me, Eccellenza,” said Ruggiero, whose own voice sounded strangely in his ears.  “And this is my brother,” he added.

The arrangement was soon made, but during the short interchange of questions and answers Ruggiero could not take his eyes from Beatrice’s face.  Possibly he was not even aware that it was rude to stare at a lady, for his education had not been got in places where ladies are often seen, or manners frequently discussed.  But Beatrice did not seem at all disturbed by the scrutiny, though she was quite aware of its pertinacity.  A woman who has beauty in any degree rarely resents the genuine and unconcealed admiration of the vulgar.  On the contrary, as the young girl dismissed the men, she smiled graciously upon them both, and perhaps a little the more upon Ruggiero, though there was not much to choose.

Neither of them spoke as they descended the stairs of the hotel, and went out through the garden to the gate.  When they were in the square beyond Ruggiero stopped.  Sebastiano stood still also and looked at him.

“Does your heart ever jump and turn somersaults and get into your mouth, when you look at a woman, Bastianello?” he asked.

“No.  Does yours?”

“Yes.  Just now.”

“I saw her, too,” answered Sebastiano.  “It is true that she is very fresh and pretty, and uncommonly clean.  Eh—­the devil!  If you like her, ask for her.  The maid of a Marchesa is sure to have money and to be a respectable girl.”

Ruggiero was silent for a moment and looked at his brother with an odd expression, as though he were going to say something.  Unfortunately for him, for Sebastiano, for the maid, for Beatrice, and for the count of San Miniato, too, he said nothing.  Instead, he produced half a cigar from his cap, and two sulphur matches, and incontinently began to smoke.

“It is lucky that both boats are engaged on the same day,” observed Sebastiano.  “The Greek will be pleased.  He will play all the numbers at the lottery.”

“And get very drunk to-night,” added Ruggiero with contempt.

“Of course.  But he is a good padrone, everybody says, and does not cheat his men.”

“I hope not.”

By and by the two went down to the beach again, and Sebastiano looked about him for a crew.  The Marchesa wanted four men in her boat, or even five, and Sebastiano picked out at once the Gull, the Son of the American, Black Rag—­otherwise known as Saint Peter from his resemblance to the pictures of the Apostle as a fisherman—­and the Deaf Man.  The latter is a fellow of strange ways, who lost his hearing from falling into the water in winter when overheated, and who has almost lost the power of speech in consequence, but a good sailor withal, tough, untiring, and patient.