He had been forced to what he had done,
as a strong man is forced struggling against odds to the brink of a
precipice, and he had found not death, but a strange new strength to
live. He had not found Heaven, but he had touched the gates of Paradise
and heard the sweet clear voice of the angel within. It was well for him
that his hand had not been raised that afternoon to deal the one blow
that would have decided his life. It was well that it was the summer
time and that when he had put the helm down to go about there had been
no white squall seething along with its wake of snowy foam from a
quarter of a mile to windward. It would have been all over now and those
great moments down there by the rocks would never have been lived.
"Through the arch, Ruggiero," said San Miniato to him as the boat
cleared the rocks of the landward needle.
"Let us go home," said Beatrice, with a little impatience in her voice.
"I am so tired."
Would she be tired of such a night if she loved the man beside her?
Ruggiero thought not, any more than he would ever be weary of being near
her to steer the boat that bore her--even for ever.
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