She sprang up in the boat.  “It was the other girl—­Miss Rae—­he was speaking of.  Oh, oh, oh—­and now it is too late.  He will hate me always.”

As she stood there, a carriage rolled by.  Some one looked out.  “O, mamma,” said a young voice in English, “look at that pretty little peasant,” and a kid-gloved hand was stretched through the open window to spatter a shower of base coin toward her.  It was terrible!  The children sprang for it, and, fighting and laughing, ran homewards with the dreadful Talila.  The parti-colored picturesque dress had been a joy to Mae.  Now she longed to tear it off and die—­die!  No, she was afraid to die.  She would have to live, and she didn’t know how, and she laughed a bitter sort of laugh.

There was a sound of horses’ feet again.  The road lay almost close to the shore just here.  A low exclamation, a vault from his horse, which was speedily cared for by a dozen boys near at hand, and before Mae knew it, the officer was beside her once more.

O, how beautiful it was to see some one from the world, fresh, and clean, and fair.  Mae gazed at him in delight, and sprang up warmly, holding out both her hot hands, “How is Heaven?” asked Bero, as he raised the white fingers to his lips.

“That is not the custom with us,” said Mae, withdrawing her hand.

“But what is custom in Heaven?” he laughed.  “Can’t we do as we please in our Heaven, Signorina?”

“This isn’t our Heaven, and I don’t please.  O, how could you let me come to this dreadful place.  Did you know how awful it would be?”

“Shall I tell you why I said nothing?  Let me row you away from all this,” and he began to untie the boat.

“When did you come?” asked Mae,

“I left Rome last night, reached Naples this morning, and here I am as soon as possible, Signorina.”

Mae felt herself gradually yielding to the spell of this man’s soft power.  She had grown strangely quiet and passive, and she folded her hands and looked off seawards in a not unhappy way.  She seemed to be some one else in a strange dream.

“Are you glad I came?” asked Bero, as he jumped into the boat and sat down opposite her.  Mae did not reply.  She had almost lost the power of speech.  She only smiled feebly and faintly.  Bero had never seen her thus before, but he realized dimly that it was he who had changed her, and the sense of his own power excited him the more.  He bent his proud head and flashed his beautiful eyes as he lifted the oars to the locks, and silently pulled out toward the bay.

As he rowed he gazed fixedly at her, and the frightened, puzzled child could not turn her eyes from his.  His look grew softer and tenderer, his head bent towards her, the oars moved slower and slower and at last stopped imperceptibly.  Still the man gazed passionately, claimingly, and the girl breathed harder and let her eyes rest on his, as if he had been a wondrous, charming serpent, and she a little, unresisting dove.  Then he spoke.