She was a rarely courageous girl. Instead of shrinking she
made a step forward and took him firmly by the arm.
"What have you done, Ruggiero?" she asked sternly.
He felt that she was accusing him. His face grew ashy white, and
grave--almost grand, she thought afterwards, for she remembered long the
look he wore. His answer came slowly in deep, vibrating tones.
"I have done nothing--but love her."
"Show her to me--take me to her," said Beatrice, still dreading some
horrible deed, she scarcely knew why.
"She is here."
"Where?"
"Here!--Ah, Christ."
His great hands went out madly as though to take her, then tenderly
touched the loose sleeves she wore, then fell, as though lifeless, to
his sides again.
Beatrice passed her hand over her eyes and drew back quickly a step. She
was startled and angered, but not frightened. It was almost the
repetition of the waking dream that had flitted through her brain before
she had landed. She had heard the grand ring of passionate love this
once at least--and how? In the voice of a common sailor--out of the
heart of an ignorant fellow who could neither read nor write, nor speak
his own language, a churl, a peasant's son, a labourer--but a man, at
least.
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