Beatrice passed her hand over her eyes and drew back quickly a step.  She was startled and angered, but not frightened.  It was almost the repetition of the waking dream that had flitted through her brain before she had landed.  She had heard the grand ring of passionate love this once at least—­and how?  In the voice of a common sailor—­out of the heart of an ignorant fellow who could neither read nor write, nor speak his own language, a churl, a peasant’s son, a labourer—­but a man, at least.  That was it—­a strong, honest, fearless man.  That was why it all moved her so—­that was why it was not an insult that this low-born fellow should dare to tell her he loved her.  She opened her lids again and saw his great figure leaning back against the rock, his white face turned upward, his eyes half closed.  She went near to him again.  Instantly, he made an effort and stood upright.  Her instinct told her that he wanted neither pity nor forgiveness nor comfort.

“You are a brave, strong man, Ruggiero; I will always pray that you may love some one who will love you again—­since you can love so well.”

The unspoiled girl’s nature had found the right expression, and the only one.  Ruggiero looked at her one moment, stooped and touched the hem of her white frock with two fingers and then pressed them silently to his lips.  Who knows from what far age that outward act of submission and vassalage has been handed down in southern lands?  There it is to this day, rarely seen, but still surviving and still known to all.

Then Ruggiero turned away and went up the sloping rocks again, and Beatrice stood still for a moment, watching his tall, retreating figure.  She meant to go, too, but she lingered a while, knowing that if ever she came back to Tragara, this would be the spot where she would pause and recall a memory, and not that other, where she had sat while San Miniato played out his wretched little comedy.

It all rushed across her mind again, bringing a new sense of disgust and repulsion with it, and a new blush of shame and anger at having been so deceived.  There was no doubt now.  The contrast had been too great, too wide, too evident.  It was the difference between truth and hearsay, as San Miniato had said once that night.  There was no mistaking the one for the other.

Poor Ruggiero! that was why he was growing pale and thin.  That was why his arm trembled when he helped her into the boat.  She leaned against the rock and wondered what it all meant, whether there were really any justice in heaven or any happiness on earth.  But she would not marry San Miniato, now, for she had given no promise.  If she had done so, she would not have broken it—­in that, at least, she was like other girls of her age and class.  Next to evils of which she knew nothing, the breaking of a promise of marriage was the greatest and most unpardonable of sins, no matter what the circumstances might be.  But she was sure that she had not promised anything.