“He made those eyes I have seen my father make, when he begged my mother’s pardon and took her in his arms to make it up.  I know those eyes.  A man may make such eyes, and yet find it in his heart to beat a wife who never did a thing to vex him!  It made my flesh creep to see those eyes again.”

After this she would not say another word.  The curato also remained silent.  He bethought himself of more than one wise saying, wherewith the maiden might have been admonished; but he refrained, in consideration of the young boatman, who had been growing rather restless toward the close of this confession.

When, after two hours’ rowing, they reached the little bay of Capri, Antonio took the padre in his arms, and carried him through the last few ripples of shallow water, to set him reverently down upon his legs on dry land.  But Laurella did not wait for him to wade back and fetch her.  Gathering up her little petticoat, holding in one hand her wooden shoes and in the other her little bundle, with one splashing step or two she had reached the shore.  “I have some time to stay at Capri,” said the priest.  “You need not wait—­I may not perhaps return before to-morrow.  When you get home, Laurella, remember me to your mother; I will come and see her within the week.  You mean to go back before it gets dark?”

“If I find an opportunity,” answered the girl, turning all her attention to her skirts.

“I must return, you know,” said Antonio, in a tone which he believed to be one of great indifference.  “I shall wait here till the Ave Maria.  If you should not come, it is the same to me.”

“You must come,” interposed the little priest; “you never can leave your mother all alone at night.  Is it far you have to go?”

“To a vineyard by Anacapri.”

“And I to Capri.  So now God bless you, child—­and you, my son.”

Laurella kissed his hand, and let one farewell drop, for the padre and Antonio to divide between them.  Antonio, however, appropriated no part of it to himself; he pulled off his cap exclusively to the padre, without even looking at Laurella.  But after they had turned their backs, he let his eyes travel but a short way with the padre, as he went toiling over the deep bed of small, loose stones; he soon sent them after the maiden, who, turning to the right, had begun to climb the heights, holding one hand above her eyes to protect them from the scorching sun.  Just before the path disappeared behind high walls, she stopped, as if to gather breath, and looked behind her.  At her feet lay the marina; the rugged rocks rose high around her; the sea was shining in the rarest of its deep-blue splendor.  The scene was surely worth a moment’s pause.  But, as chance would have it, her eyes, in glancing past Antonio’s boat, met Antonio’s own, which had been following her as she climbed.

Each made a slight movement, as persons do who would excuse themselves for some mistake; and then, with her darkest look, the maiden went her way.