They did not talk as they went down the steep mountain-side, but when
they reached the entrance of the ravine Gaspare stopped abruptly and took
his cold hand away from his padrona's hand.
"Signora," he said, almost in a whisper. "Let me go alone!"
They were under the shade of the trees here and it was much darker than
upon the mountain-side. Hermione could not see the boy's face plainly.
She came close up to him.
"Why do you want to go alone?" she asked.
Without knowing it, she, too, spoke in an under-voice.
"What is it you are afraid of?" she added.
"I am not afraid."
"Yes," she said, "you are. Your hand is quite cold."
"Let me go alone, signora."
"No, Gaspare. There is nothing to be afraid of, I believe. But if--if
there should have been an accident, I ought to be there. The padrone is
my husband, remember."
She went on and he followed her.
Hermione had spoken firmly, even almost cheerfully, to comfort the boy,
whose uneasiness was surely greater than the occasion called for. So many
little things may happen to delay a man. And Maurice might really have
made the détour to Marechiaro on his way home. If he had, then they would
miss him by taking this path through the ravine. Hermione knew that, but
she did not hesitate to take it. She could not remain inactive to-night.
Patience was out of her reach. It was only by making a strong effort that
she had succeeded in waiting that short time on the terrace. Now she
could wait no longer. She was driven. Although she had not yet sincerely
acknowledged it to herself, fear was gradually taking possession of her,
a fear such as she had never yet known or even imagined.
She had never yet known or imagined such a fear. That she felt. But she
had another feeling, contradictory, surely. It began to seem to her as if
this fear, which was now coming upon her, had been near her for a long
time, ever since the night when she knew that she was going to Africa.
Had she not even expressed it to Maurice?
Those beautiful days and nights of perfect happiness--can they ever come
again? Had she not thought that many times? Was it not the voice of this
fear which had whispered those words, and others like them, to her mind?
And had there not been omens? Had there not been omens?
She heard Gaspare's feet behind her in the ravine, and it seemed to her
that she could tell by the sound of them upon the many little loose
stones that he was wild with impatience, that he was secretly cursing her
for obliging him to go so slowly. Had he been alone he would have sped
down with a rapidity almost like that of travelling light. She was
strong, active. She was going fast. Instinctively she went fast. But she
was a woman, not a boy.