Beatrice was silent for a moment.  She was indeed inclined to believe in a special intervention of the powers of evil in her own case.  Had she not been suddenly moved to tell a man that she loved him, only to discover a moment later that it was a mistake?

“What is the miracle you pray for, Ruggiero?” she asked after a pause.

“To be changed into some one else, Excellency.”

“And then—­would she love you?”

“By Our Lady’s grace—­perhaps!” The deep voice shook again.  He set his teeth, folded his arms over his throbbing breast, and planted one foot firmly on a stone before him, as though to await a blow.

“I am very sorry for you, Ruggiero,” said Beatrice in soft, kind tones.

“God render you your kindness—­it is better than nothing,” he answered.

“Is she sorry for you, too?  She should be—­you love her so much.”

“Yes—­she is sorry for me.  She has just said so.”  He raised his clenched hand to his mouth almost before the words were uttered.  Beatrice did not see the few bright red drops that fell upon the rock as he gnawed the flesh.

“Just said so?” she said, repeating his words.  “I do not understand?  Is she here to-night?”

He did not answer, but slowly bent his head, as though in assent.  An odd foreboding of danger shot through the young girl’s heart.  Little as the man said, he seemed desperate.  It was possible that the girl he loved might be a Capriote, and that he might have met her and talked with her while the dinner was going on.  He might have strangled her with those great hands of his.  She would not have uttered a cry, and no one would be the wiser, for Tragara is a lonely place, by day and night.

“She is here, you say?” Beatrice asked again.  “Where is she?  Ruggiero, what is the matter?  Have you done her any harm?  Have you hurt her?  Have you killed her?”

“Not yet—–­”

“Not yet!” Beatrice cried, in a low horror-struck tone.  She had heard his sharp, agonised breathing as he reeled unsteadily against the rock behind him.  She was a rarely courageous girl.  Instead of shrinking she made a step forward and took him firmly by the arm.

“What have you done, Ruggiero?” she asked sternly.

He felt that she was accusing him.  His face grew ashy white, and grave—­almost grand, she thought afterwards, for she remembered long the look he wore.  His answer came slowly in deep, vibrating tones.

“I have done nothing—­but love her.”

“Show her to me—­take me to her,” said Beatrice, still dreading some horrible deed, she scarcely knew why.

“She is here.”

“Where?”

“Here!—­Ah, Christ.”

His great hands went out madly as though to take her, then tenderly touched the loose sleeves she wore, then fell, as though lifeless, to his sides again.