Again, however, came the echoing shout—­“Si, si—­San Salvatore.”

They descended gingerly, holding up their skirts just as if they would be wanting them another time and had not in all probability finished with skirts for ever.

The steps ended in a steeply sloping path with flat stone slabs down the middle.  They slipped a good deal on these wet slabs, and the man with the lantern, talking loud and quickly, held them up.  His way of holding them up was polite.

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Wilkins in a low voice to Mrs. Arbuthnot, “It is all right after all.”

“We’re in God’s hands,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot again; and again Mrs. Wilkins was afraid.

They reached the bottom of the sloping path, and the light of the lantern flickered over an open space with houses round three sides.  The sea was the fourth side, lazily washing backwards and forwards on pebbles.

“San Salvatore,” said the man pointing with his lantern to a black mass curved round the water like an arm flung about it.

They strained their eyes.  They saw the black mass, and on the top of it a light.

“San Salvatore?” they both repeated incredulously, for where were the suit-cases, and why had they been forced to get out of the fly?

“Si, si—­San Salvatore.”

They went along what seemed to be a quay, right on the edge of the water.  There was not even a low wall here—­nothing to prevent the man with the lantern tipping them in if he wanted to.  He did not, however, tip them in.  Perhaps it was all right after all, Mrs. Wilkins again suggested to Mrs. Arbuthnot on noticing this, who this time was herself beginning to think that it might be, and said no more about God’s hands.

The flicker of the lantern danced along, reflected in the wet pavement of the quay.  Out to the left, in the darkness and evidently at the end of a jetty, was a red light.  They came to an archway with a heavy iron gate.  The man with the lantern pushed the gate open.  This time they went up steps instead of down, and at the top of them was a little path that wound upwards among flowers.  They could not see the flowers, but the whole place was evidently full of them.

It here dawned on Mrs. Wilkins that perhaps the reason why the fly had not driven them up to the door was that there was no road, only a footpath.  That also would explain the disappearance of the suit-cases.  She began to feel confident that they would find their suit-cases waiting for them when they got up to the top.  San Salvatore was, it seemed, on the top of a hill, as a mediaeval castle should be.  At a turn of the path they saw above them, much nearer now and shining more brightly, the light they had seen from the quay.  She told Mrs. Arbuthnot of her dawning belief, and Mrs. Arbuthnot agreed that it was very likely a true one.

Once more, but this time in a tone of real hopefulness, Mrs. Wilkins said, pointing upwards at the black outline against the only slightly less black sky, “San Salvatore?” And once more, but this time comfortingly, encouragingly, came back the assurance, “Si, si—­San Salvatore.”