She was very near him as she sat furthest
forward in the stern-sheets and he pulled the starboard stroke oar,
leaning forward upon the loom, as the gust filled the sails and the boat
needed no pulling.
"You do not care for the mandolin, Donna Beatrice?" said San Miniato,
with a sort of disappointed interrogation in his voice.
"Have I said that I do not care for it?" asked the young girl
indifferently. "You take too much for granted."
Grim and silent on the stern sat Ruggiero, the tiller in his hand, his
eye on the dark water to landward constantly on the look-out for the
gusts that came down so quickly and which could deal treacherously with
a light craft like the one he was steering. But he had no desire to
upset her to-night, nor even to bring the tiller down on his master's
head. There was to be no bungling about the business he had in hand, no
mistakes and no wasting of lives.
The mandolin tinkled and the guitar strummed vigorously as they neared
Scutari point, vast, black and forbidding in the starlight. But a gloom
had settled upon the party which nothing could dispel. It was as though
the shadow of coming evil had overtaken them and were sweeping along
with them across the dark and silent water.
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