So the boat shot out upon the crisping water into the light afternoon
breeze, and up went foresail and mainsail and jib, and away she went on
the port tack, San Miniato steering and talking to Beatrice--which
things are not to be done together with advantage--the Marchesa lying
back in a cane rocking-chair and thinking of nothing, while Teresina
held the parasol over her mistress's head and shot bright glances at the
sailors forward. And Ruggiero and Bastianello sat side by side amidships
looking out at the gleaming sea to windward.
"What hast thou?" asked Bastianello in a low voice.
"The pain," answered his brother.
"Why let thyself be consumed by it? Ask her in marriage. The Marchesa
will give her to thee."
"Better to die! Thou dost not know all."
"That may be," said Bastianello with a sigh.
And he slowly began to fake down the slack of the main halyard on the
thwart, twisting the coil slowly and thoughtfully as it grew under his
broad hands, till the rope lay in a perfectly smooth disk beside him.
But Ruggiero changed his position and gazed steadily at Beatrice's
changing face while San Miniato talked to her.
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