After all, Julius was not quite certain whether Leonora had fainted, or was asleep. She had been comfortably settled in the boat at the first, and a quarter of an hour had passed in hoisting and trimming the sails, and bringing the craft before the wind. She might have fallen asleep from sheer fatigue and weariness,—Julius could not tell. He bent far down over the stern, and fetched up a few drops of water from the sea with one hand, while the other supported Leonora's drooping head,—the tiller could take care of itself for a moment,—and he sprinkled her face softly and watched her; once more—and she opened her eyes as from a pleasant dream, and looking up to his she smiled, and closed them again. He bent down and spoke almost in a whisper.

"Darling, are you quite comfortable?" She moved her head in assent, the quiet smile still playing on her lips. Then she lay quite still for a while, and listened to the rush of the water, and the occasional dull, wooden sound as the rudder moved a little on its hinges. The boat rolled softly from side to side, in a long, easy motion and glided swiftly down the bay.

Presently Leonora moved, sat up, and looked about her, at the sea, and the land, and the fiery-crested mountain.

"Where are we going, Julius?" she asked, with a smile at the question.

"I am sure I don't know," said he, laughing. "There are lots of places we can go to. Ischia, Capri,—Naples if you like. Select, dearest, there is a good boat between us and the water, and we have the world before us."

"But we must go somewhere where we can get some breakfast," said she gravely. "And where I can buy things," she added, laughing again. "Do you know that this is all I have got in the world to wear?"

"That is serious indeed," said Julius. "There are provisions and things to drink in the boat, but there is no millinery. We had better go to Naples."

"I think I could manage for one day," said Leonora, doubtfully. "I have brought heaps of handkerchiefs, and hairpins, and cologne water,—they are all in the bag."

"Handkerchiefs and hairpins!" repeated Julius, and laughed at the idea. A woman leaves her husband, who worships her, scatters trouble and tears and madness broadcast, and she thinks of handkerchiefs and hairpins, and remembers where she has put them.

"Yes," said Leonora, "they will be very useful. We could go to Ischia first, and to Naples to-morrow night,—or rather to-night, I should say. That is,—if you think"—

"What, dear?" asked Julius.

"If you think it is quite—far enough."

"We cannot go very far. It is six or seven hours from here to Ischia, if the wind holds. We should be there between six and seven o'clock."

"I think that would be best," said Leonora in a tone of decision. She was silent for a moment. Presently she looked up into Batiscombe's face, and her own was white and beautiful in the moonlight. "I wonder," she said, "whether any one heard that noise the dogs made? Oh, the poor, poor kitten,—it makes me quite cry to think of her!"

"Poor thing!" said Julius sympathetically. "But its ghost will not haunt the gardens, for it was amply avenged."

"Yes indeed!" said Leonora. "Oh, Julius, you are so strong,—I like you."

"Thanks," said Julius, "you are awfully good to like me." He laughed, but his hand caressed her hair tenderly, and Leonora was happy.

"It was just like us," said she, "to stop there at the top of the steps where we might have been seen in a moment—but I am glad. I hated those dogs."

"It was just as well," said he. "They would very likely have made more noise, and followed us."

"Oh yes—and just fancy the wrath when they are found to-morrow morning. But they might have bitten you dreadfully—I was terribly frightened."

"I fancy there will be more wrath about you, my dear, than about the dogs," said Julius, rather gravely.

"About me? Oh—I hardly know—perhaps. I do not think any one will mind very much."

"What does it matter who minds, as you call it?" asked Julius, pushing her thick hair from her forehead tenderly, and looking at her with loving eyes. "What does it matter to us now? What can anything ever matter again?"

"Nothing, nothing, nothing, dear," she answered softly, and her head drooped happily upon his shoulder.

They were as though alone in the boat, for the broad sail was stretched right across to catch the wind, and hid the men, who sat together forward, chattering in a low voice in the incomprehensible dialect known as the lingua franca, the free tongue in which all Mediterranean sailors understand one another, from Gibraltar to Constantinople, and from Smyrna to Marseilles. They did not care a rush what their master did, nor where he went; they had some confidence in his knowledge of the sea and of the coast, and they had entire confidence in themselves, whatever wind might blow. It was nothing to them, who came from the north coast, whether their broad-shouldered "signore" took a "bella signora" from Naples or Sorrento for a midnight sail in his boat. He paid well, to every man his wages, and he often gave them a few francs to drink his health. They had never had so good a "padrone" before, and they asked no questions, wisely distinguishing the side of the bread upon which a bountiful providence had spread the most butter for their benefit. They also said that nothing ever mattered much so long as they got their pay.

Leonora had found at last the desire of her heart,—the reckless, stormy passion, careless of everything but itself and its object, of which she had so often dreamed. She had found the man for her to love, and she did love him to distraction. As for the rest of the world, she was more persuaded than ever that there was nothing very much in anything after all. What she had was wholly sufficient in the present, the future was a future full of joy and love, and divested of everything that could possibly be wearisome, and the past was cut off, murdered, dead and buried out of sight.

But though she had killed it and thrown it away, as Julius had done with the dogs, it had a ghost and a living memory that would haunt her for many days and weeks, and months and years. A life is not a dream to be forgotten, nor an old garment to be thrown aside at will. Life is an ever present thing, and all our past is as much a part and parcel of to-day as the marks we bear in our bodies are portions of ourselves, no matter how we came by them, nor when.

Out of nothing, nothing can come. Out of confusion and vanity and pure selfishness, out of confused and incoherent fragments of half-expressed wisdom, out of the very vanity of vanities, which is the vanity of wise words wrought into foolish phrases; out of the shell of an imaginary self wrought fine and gilded to please the worst part of the real self,—out of all these things, I say, what can come that is good? Or can anything come of them which is truly evil, seeing that, one with another, they are all but so many empty nothings, melted together and lost in the great void that receives the failures of the soul-world?

If anything results from such a life, it must be the realisation of nothing, which is the extinction and annihilation of that which is,—and woe be to the destroyer. We may destroy all hold and anchorage of mind and soul, we may reason ourselves into a disbelief in reality, in matter, in daily life, in good and evil. But always when we think that everything is done, and that our fabric of philosophy is faultless, there arises the strong tide of human passion and creeps across the sands to our tower. At first we may watch the waves from a long way off, and laugh to see them break and overwhelm the very foolish people who have no tower on the shore and must swim for their lives or perish. But the tide rolls on toward us, and runs cruelly up, crashing and thundering in its rising might, till it rends and tears our flimsy castle out of the sands beneath our very feet, and we fall headlong into the rushing waters. And then we too must struggle like the rest, if we can; and if we cannot, we must sink to the bottom, while those who learned when the tide was low and the water smooth, and have tried their strength in many a brave buffet with the waves, swim strongly over our drowned bodies.

It is easy to moralise, it is hard to live. That is the reason that great moralists are generally either old men who have done with living and would like to teach other people, or else young men and young women who have not enough vitality to animate the most lymphatic oyster, but who manage to float about by their own inflation. These latter never save any one from drowning, and the former save very few. The people who can help others are the strong ones who can catch them just below the shoulder, by the arm, and support them and push them to land, themselves doing all the work. That is a watery simile, but most similes are but water, and can be poured into a tea-cup or into a bucket—they will take the shape of either.

The night wore on, the full moon sinking slowly to the west, so that after a time she was hidden from the lovers by the sails, and there was a broad shadow behind them. Still the breeze blew fresh from the land and carried them straight towards Ischia, and the boat rocked smoothly over the rolling water. Leonora rested on the thick cushions, and her head lay nestled in Batiscombe's arm while he held the tiller carelessly with his other hand, steering by the wind, in the certainty of making the right course. He did not speak, for he wanted her to rest, and so it came about that before long she fell peacefully asleep, and Julius drew a light shawl tenderly about her, and kissed her ruddy hair, and looked out over the moonlit water, calmly as though he were sailing for his pleasure.

He was thinking what strange things happened in his life, and wondering within himself whether he could ever grow old and be like other people. But he could never be like other people now, for he must live a life apart from the world, and create an existence of a new kind, utterly free from the ties and bonds and weariness of society. It would also be without the amusements, the gayety, the glitter, and the flattery of society. Batiscombe liked all that, too; but he thought he could do without it very well. Just now the fascination of the hour was upon him. The sweet sea-breeze, the moonlight on the water, the swirl of the boat's wake—and, above all, the beautiful woman by his side sleeping so gently and nestled so lovingly close to him,—it was all perfect.

But with a curious duality that belonged to him, he enjoyed the moment and thought intensely of the future at the same time; not with any fear or regret or even with the anticipation of remorse for what he had done, but with a far-seeing love of combination, striving to know exactly what would happen and to provide for it.

He went over in his mind the many places to which he might take Leonora, and tried to select the most beautiful and the most retired—some ideal spot, not yet invaded by society. Society, in the long run, gets the best of everything; artists and poets and adventurous tourists may seek out an inaccessible region and keep it to themselves for a while, revelling in the solitude and driving off intruders by discouraging civilisation and affecting a barbaric display of shirt-sleeves, paint, and beards. But if the place is really beautiful, really healthy or really convenient for flirting in the open air, there will surely come at last a stray princess of eccentric disposition and fond of a little discomfort. She will say it is simply too delightful, and so very natural, you know; and in the course of a summer or two the society battalion will encamp there, the houses will be newly painted, and there will be a band and a casino, and a royal personage.

It is very hard to find the kind of place Julius wanted, and he thought for a long time before he hit upon it. But at last he had a happy idea and was pleased with himself for having it, as he always was. Very cautiously he got a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it with one hand, steadying the helm with his elbow. He did it so smoothly and quietly that Leonora did not wake, and he puffed in silent enjoyment of the tobacco, taking care that the smoke should not blow into her face.

It was very like Julius Batiscombe to risk waking her in order that he might smoke, for he was a selfish man and knew it, and delighted in it. But it came upon him in gusts, and was not always a part of him; only, when it did come, it covered completely the better features of his nature. In carrying away Leonora, he had done one of the most absolutely selfish actions of his life, and for the time being there was nothing he would not do so long as he could keep her with him and make her sure that he loved her. He knew well enough that she loved him. He did not want to know anything about his own motives. He was in love—that was motive enough for anything.

As a matter of fact, deep down in his soul there were other incentives at play; but he would not acknowledge that to himself. It was true that since he had loved Diana he had never loved another woman as he loved Leonora. There was a charm about her which he could not explain, which overcame him and filled his whole life. His lingering feeling for Diana was always real when no other passion was in the way, and it had never happened before that any one of his affairs had crossed her path. But now it had chanced at last, and the strong position she had taken against him from the first had roused a bitter opposition in him. It secretly delighted him to think of her anger, and sorrow, and humiliation at the success of his enterprise. But, nevertheless, he loved Leonora with all the strength of passion that remained to him, and that was saying much.

Again, he had the vanity, in some directions, of half a dozen ordinary men, a common peculiarity of that unusual physical courage and strength which he possessed in an eminent degree. But it did not go into his work, for he was an artist at heart, besides being a man of the world, and was never long satisfied with anything he wrote. It was the sort of vanity that hankers after the admiration of women, and would not take the admiration of men as a gift,—an intensely virile characteristic of immense power. He would like to rule men, to lead them to do great things or to crush them under his heel, according to his mood; and he sometimes ground his teeth because he could do neither. But he did not want their admiration, much less their sympathy. They might flatter him, or abuse him—he was utterly indifferent. But he would sacrifice a great deal for the approbation of a woman, and he often got it; for women, generally speaking, like best the men who hang upon their words and will do anything under heaven for a smile and a word of praise—as is natural.

Consequently, Leonora's evident interest in himself had pleased Julius from the very first, and he had often done things for the sake of hearing her say something flattering, which had meant more than he had realised. There was no doubt whatever that his vanity had played an important part in bringing him into his present position. Nor was he a very exceptional man in this respect, save in the degree of his qualities. Hundreds of men fall in love every day with women who flatter them, and the passion is not less strong because it is of a low order.

It was over now, however, and the plunge was taken. The falling in love was accomplished, and the being in love had begun. Henceforth the two main considerations in his mind were to make life convenient and easy for Leonora, in order that she might not cease to love him out of discontent, and then to get over his inevitable meeting with Marcantonio as soon as possible and as well as possible. He easily saw that these two things were inseparable. If all question of future complication were not removed at once by a decisive meeting with Carantoni, Leonora might live in a state of fear and trembling for months to come. In order to meet him it was necessary to have some place of abode for the time, where Leonora might be happy—of course she should not know of the encounter until it was over—and at the same time the spot must be so chosen as to be tolerably accessible. He had intended to go to France when it was over, and had therefore sent his box to Turin, meaning to take it as soon as he felt free to move; Turin suggested Piedmont, and Piedmont suggested a place where he had once spent a month in the summer,—scenery, trout-fishing, considerable comfort, and not a soul there excepting some of the local society of Turin, who found it convenient and cheap. He at once determined to go thither, and to send Marcantonio information of the fact, in order that he might find him as soon as he pleased.

He no more expected, or wished, to avoid a duel than Marcantonio himself. The one virtue which never deserted him was his courage. He would let his adversary have a shot at him if he liked, but he himself would fire in the air, of course. He did not think much about it, to tell the truth, for he accepted the fact as the consequence of his action, and occupied himself in providing for it without any judgment of himself, for good or evil. He had once said to Leonora that the enjoyment belonged to the man who ate, and not to the man who carved, and she had guessed rightly that however well he might analyse the lives of others, he never analysed his own. He had got the forbidden fruit and he was glad of it, and meant to keep it all for himself, inwardly rejoicing at the anger of those who would have prevented him, if they could. And with all this, the fruit gave him an intense delight, independently of the triumph of having obtained it. He was not a man who tired of anything he liked so long as the thing itself did not change and remained as sweet as ever.

There he sat at the helm all through the hours from midnight to dawn, and Leonora slept peacefully in the cool sea air, at rest after all her excitement and fatigue. Gradually the moonlight seemed to lose distinctness, while gaining more strength and permeating the shadows of the boat which had before been dark and well defined. The breeze blew cooler and fresher than ever, bearing a faint chill in its breath, and the water, from being like black velvet strewn with diamonds, turned gradually grey and misty, so that the waves could all be seen with their small crests and sharp rough edges. In front the rocky height of Ischia seemed to tower to the sky, and soon it caught the first soft tinge of the dawn. Quickly the rosy light crept downwards, falling gently from tree to tree and from rock to rock, till it reached the water, and the sea rippled and laughed in the sweetness of the summer morning.

Leonora moved in her sleep, and Julius, who was watching her, saw her lips tremble a little as though she were talking in her dreams. Then she started slightly, put out her hand, and opened her eyes. The blood mounted to her cheeks as she met her lover's glance, and he looked from the colour on the water to the colour on her face, and he saw that the blush of the woman was fairer than the blush of the summer sea. She sat up and turned from him a moment, and her hands were busy with her hair.

"Have you slept well, my dear one?" asked Julius. "I am afraid you were terribly uncomfortable."

"Oh, so well," said she, still looking away and deftly putting a hairpin in its place. "But I dreamed just as I woke up."

"What did you dream, sweetheart?" asked Julius, stretching his stiffened limbs. He had scarcely moved for four hours; he could have borne it for four hours longer if he had not wanted anything,—but he had risked waking her in order to get a cigarette.

"I dreamed about you," said she. "You behaved so badly, I am not sure I shall forgive you,—ever." She gave him a hesitating look as she bent her head to arrange her hair.

"Tell me, darling," said he, laughing.

"It is nothing to laugh at," she answered. "And besides,—I don't know whether I ought to tell you." She stopped and watched him with a little shy laugh.

"Please do."

"Well,—of course this is in the strictest confidence,—you will never tell any one. Do give me the bag, dear. I want the cologne water."

"And the hairpins and the handkerchiefs," added Julius, laughing, as he stooped to get the bag out of the stern-sheets. "Please tell me the dream."

Leonora took a handkerchief and wet it from the bottle of cologne water. Then she began to dab it on her face.

"I dreamed that you"—dab—"picked me up in your arms and"—dab, dab—"carried me down the stairs,"—dab, dab, dab,—"and just as you were putting me into the"—dab—"into the boat, you dropped me into the sea." A furious succession of dabs, then more cologne water and another handkerchief.

"But you said something about that last night. You made me put you down on the rocks, because you said you had dreamed I dropped you. Was that another dream?"

Julius was watching her operations with a half-amused interest.

"Yes," said she, drying her face, "I dreamed it all over again, just now."

"But when did you dream it first, dear? Yesterday?"

"Oh no! Ever so long ago,—ages ago." She looked down at the flower she had put in her dress at the last minute. It was still fresh, and she arranged it a little.

"Before you knew me?" asked Julius.

"Oh yes,—that is—before"—she blushed again.

"When was it?" he asked, amused and delighted.

"It was before that evening," she said at last, "when you met me in the church. How long ago is that?"

"About ten years, I should think," said Julius gravely. It seemed an endless time.

"Is it not strange?—and then, that I should dream it all again—it is so funny. Why should you have dropped me? It would have been so easy to carry me into the boat, and yet you seemed to stumble on purpose, and we both fell in and were drowned. Is it not very odd?"

She seemed to have settled herself now, for the remainder of the journey; the sun had risen quickly over the land while they were talking, and she put up a parasol which lay on the opposite seat. She did it unconsciously, not realising that she had not brought one with her, but when she held it up, she looked at the handle and saw that it was not one of her own. Then she remembered.

"Did you get it for me?" she asked, smiling.

"Yes," said Julius; "I knew you would want it, so I sent out for it last night."

"A puggia!" shouted one of the men from behind the sail.

Julius put the helm up accordingly, and, as the boat fell off a little, a big fishing smack ran across her bows.

A dozen rough fellows were lounging about in their woollen caps and dirty shirts. They laughed gayly at the crazy foreigners as they went by, and some of them waved their caps.

"Buon viaggio, eccellenza!" they shouted. Julius waved his hand in answer to the greeting. Leonora was pleased.

"At all events," said she, "some one has wished us a pleasant journey. It was sweet of you to get the parasol, dear."

So they chattered together awhile, and presently the boat went round the point of the island to the north side, and they took in the sails, and the six men pulled her lustily along under the shore, until they reached the little harbour of Casamicciola.

"We can stay here and rest all day," said Julius, as they entered the hotel on the hill, half an hour later. "We shall not be disturbed, and this afternoon we will sail over to Naples, and you can do your shopping when it is cool."

At half past eight they sat down to a breakfast of figs and bread-and-butter and coffee. At the same moment over there in Sorrento, Temistocle laid the key of Leonora's room on Marcantonio's writing-table, and edged away to make sure of an easy escape through the door.

"How perfectly lovely!" exclaimed Leonora, stopping in the consumption of a very ripe black fig, to look out at the sea and the exquisite islands that lie like jewels between Ischia and the mainland.

A waiter had brought a shabby book of ruled paper, with a pen and some ink. He asked if his excellency would be good enough to write his name. Julius took the pen and wrote something, glancing up with a smile at Leonora, who finished her fig in silence.

"Let me see," said she, when he had done. He handed her the book, while the servant waited respectfully.

Julius had written simply, "Mr. and Mrs. Batiscombe, England."

"Give me the pen," said Leonora. "Oh, dip it in the ink, please—thanks!" She wrote something and gave him back the book. Underneath his writing she had put in another name.

"I wanted to write it," said she with a little laugh. Julius looked, and laughed too.

"Leonora Batiscombe," that was all.

But as she wrote it, Marcantonio, over there in Sorrento, fell upon the hard tiles with his mother's diamond cross in his hand.