o," she asked, for she had seen him with his back
turned and had not recognised him at first.

"Yes, Excellency," he answered in a hoarse voice, touching his cap.

"What a beautiful night it is!" said the young girl. She often talked
with the men in the boat, and Ruggiero interested her especially at the
present moment.

"Yes, Excellency," he answered again.

"Is the weather to be fine, Ruggiero?"

"Yes, Excellency."

Ruggiero was apparently not in the conversational mood. He was probably
thinking of the girl he loved--in all likelihood of Teresina, as
Beatrice thought. She stood still a couple of paces from him and looked
at the sea. She felt a capricious desire to make the big sailor talk and
tell her something about himself. It would be sure to be interesting and
honest and strong, a contrast, as she fancied, to the things she had
just heard.

"Ruggiero---" she began, and then she stopped and hesitated.

"Yes, Excellency."

The continual repetition of the two words irritated her. She tried to
frame a question to which he could not give the same answer.

"I would like you to tell me who it is whom you love so dearly--is she
good and beautiful and sensible, too, as you said?"

"She is all that, Excellency." His voice shook, not as it seemed to her
with weakness, but with strength.

"Tell me her name."

Ruggiero was silent for some moments, and his head was bent forward. He
seemed to be breathing hard and not able to speak.

"Her name is Beatrice," he said at last, in a low, firm tone as though
he were making a great effort.

"Really!" exclaimed the young girl. "That is my name, too. I suppose
that is why you did not want to tell me. But you must not be afraid of
me, Ruggiero. If there is anything I can do to help you, I will do it.
Is it money you need? I will give you some."

"It is not money."

"What is it, then?"

"Love--and a miracle."

His answers came lower and lower, and he looked at the ground, suffering
as he had never suffered and yet indescribably happy in speaking with
her, and in seeing the interest she felt in him. But his brain was
beginning to reel. He did not know what he might say next.

"Love and a miracle!" repeated Beatrice in her silvery voice. "Those are
two things which I cannot get for you. You must pray to the saints for
the one and to her for the other. Does she not love you at all then?"

"She will never love me. I know it."

"And that would be the miracle--if sh