not worth while," said Ruggiero to himself, "since you are to
take another bath so soon."

Then he looked at the sun and saw that it lacked half an hour of sunset,
and he went to see that all was ready for the evening. He and
Bastianello launched the old tub between them, and Ruggiero ballasted
her with two heavy sacks of pebbles just amidships, where they would be
under his feet.

"Better shift them a little more forward," said Bastianello. "There will
be three passengers, you said."

"We do not know," answered Ruggiero. "If there are three I can shift
them quickly when every one is aboard."

So Bastianello said nothing more about it, and they got the kettle and
the torches and stowed them away in the bows.

"You had better go home and cook supper," said Ruggiero. "I will come
when it is dark, for then the others will have eaten and I will leave
two to look out."

Bastianello went ashore on the pier and his brother pulled the skiff out
till he was alongside of the sailboat, to which he made her fast. He
busied himself with trifles until it grew dark and there was no one on
the pier. Then he got into the boat again, taking a bit of strong line
with him, a couple of fathoms long, or a little less. Stooping down he
slipped the line under the bags of ballast and made a timber-hitch with
the end, hauling it well taut. With the other end he made a bowline
round the thwart on which he was sitting, and on which he must sit to
pull the bow oar in the evening. He tied the knot wide enough to admit
of its running freely from side to side of the boat, and he stowed the
bight between the ballast and the thwart, so that it lay out of sight in
the bottom. The two sacks of pebbles together weighed, perhaps, from a
half to three-quarters of a hundredweight.

When all was ready he went ashore and shouted for the Cripple and the
Son of the Fool, who at once appeared out of the dusk, and were put on
board the sailboat by him. Then he pulled himself ashore and moored the
tub to a ring in the pier. It was time for supper. Bastianello would be
waiting for him, and Ruggiero went home.

As the evening shadows fell, Beatrice was seated at the piano in the
sitting-room playing softly to herself such melancholy music as she
could remember, which was not much. It gave her relief, however, for she
could at least try and express something of what would not and could
not be put into words. She was not a musician, but she played fairly
well,