The Call of the Blood

"It was not my fault, signora!" he cried, hotly. "I wanted to go. I

begged to go, but the padrone would not let me."

"Why not?"

Hermione, peering in the darkness, thought she saw the ugly look come

again into the boy's face.

"Why not, signora?"

"Yes, why not?"

"He wished me to stay with you. He said: 'Stay with the padrona, Gaspare.

She will be all alone.'"

"Did he? Well, Gaspare, it is not your fault. But I never thought it was.

You know that."

She had heard in his voice that he was hurt.

"Come! We must go on!"

Her fear was now tangible. It had a definite form, and with every moment

it grew greater in the night, towering over her, encompassing her about.

For she had hoped to meet Maurice coming up the ravine, and, with each

moment that went by, her hope of hearing his footstep decreased, her

conviction that something untoward must have occurred grew more solid.

Only once was her terror abated. When they were not far from the mouth of

the ravine Gaspare suddenly seized her arm from behind.

"Gaspare! What is it?" she said, startled.

He held up one hand.

"Zitta!" he whispered.

Hermione listened, holding her breath. It was a silent night, windless

and calm. The trees had no voices, the watercourse was dry, no longer

musical with the falling stream. Even the sea was dumb, or, if it were

not, murmured so softly that these two could not hear it where they

stood. And now, in this dark silence, they heard a faint sound. It was

surely a foot-fall upon stones. Yes, it was.

By the fierce joy that burst up in her heart Hermione measured her

previous fear.

"It's he! It's the padrone!"

She put her face close to Gaspare's and whispered the words. He nodded.

His eyes were shining.

"Andiamo!" he whispered back.

With a boy's impetuosity he wished to rush on and meet the truant pilgrim

from the sea, but Hermione held him back. She could not bear to lose that

sweet sound, the foot-fall on the stones, coming nearer every moment.

"No. Let's wait for him here! Let's give him a surprise."

"Va bene!"

His body was quivering with suppressed movement. But they waited. The

step was slow, or so it seemed to Hermione as she listened again, like

the step of a tired man. Maurice seldom walked like that, she thought. He

was light-footed, swift. His actions were ardent as were his eyes. But it

must be he! Of course it was he! He was languid after a long swim, and

was walking slowly for fear of getting hot. That must be it. The walker

drew nearer, the crunch of the stones was louder under his feet.