Antonio sprang from his seat.  “I must go,” he said.  “It is a young Sorrento girl, who came over with the signor curato in the morning.  She has to get back to her sick mother before night.”

“Well, well, time enough yet before night,” observed the fisherman; “time enough to take a glass of wine.  Wife, I say, another glass!”

“I thank you; I had rather not;” and Laurella kept her distance.

“Fill the glasses, wife; fill them both, I say; she only wants a little pressing.”

“Don’t,” interposed the lad.  “It is a wilful head of her own she has; a saint could not persuade her to do what she does not choose.”  And, taking a hasty leave, he ran down to the boat, loosened the rope, and stood waiting for Laurella.  Again she bent her head to the hostess, and slowly approached the water, with lingering steps.  She looked around on every side, as if in hopes of seeing some other passenger.  But the marina was deserted.  The fishermen were asleep, or rowing about the coast with rods or nets; a few women and children sat before their doors, spinning or sleeping:  such strangers as had come over in the morning were waiting for the cool of the evening to return.  She had not time to look about her long; before she could prevent him, Antonio had seized her in his arms and carried her to the boat, as if she had been an infant.  He leaped in after her, and with a stroke or two of his oar they were in deep water.

She had seated herself at the end of the boat, half turning her back to him, so that he could only see her profile.  She wore a sterner look than ever; the low, straight brow was shaded by her hair; the rounded lips were firmly closed; only the delicate nostril occasionally gave a wilful quiver.  After they had gone on a while in silence, she began to feel the scorching of the sun; and, unloosening her bundle, she threw the handkerchief over her head, and began to make her dinner of the bread; for in Capri she had eaten nothing.

Antonio did not stand this long; he fetched out a couple of the oranges with which the baskets had been filled in the morning.  “Here is something to eat to your bread, Laurella,” he said.  “Don’t think I kept them for you; they had rolled out of the basket, and I only found them when I brought the baskets back to the boat.”

“Eat them yourself; bread is enough for me.”

“They are refreshing in this heat, and you have had to walk so far.”

“They gave me a drink of water, and that refreshed me.”

“As you please,” he said, and let them drop into the basket.

Silence again.  The sea was smooth as glass.  Not a ripple was heard against the prow.  Even the white sea-birds that roost among the caves of Capri pursued their prey with soundless flight.

“You might take the oranges to your mother,” again commenced Tonino.

“We have oranges at home; and when they are gone, I can go and buy some more.”