"If you have ever stood between us," she said, "you had the right. He loved you first. There is nothing to forgive in that. Afterwards he loved me a little. No one can take that from me, no one! It is mine, and it is all I have, and though I am going, and though I know that he is tired of me, it is still more than the world. To have it, as I have it, I would do again what I did, from the first."
The voice was weak and muffled, but the words were distinct, and they were the confession of poor Regina's life.
"If he were here," she said, after a moment, "I would lay your hand in his. Only let me take that memory with me!"
The young girl rose and bent over her as she answered.
"It is yours, to keep for ever."
She stooped a little lower and kissed the dying woman's forehead.
Under the May moon a little brigantine came sailing up to a low island just within sight of Italy; when she was within half a mile of the reefs Don Antonino Maresca put her about, for he was a prudent man, and he knew that there are just a few more rocks in the sea than are in the charts. It was a quiet night, and he was beating up against a gentle northerly breeze.
When the head yards were swung, and braced sharp up for the other tack, and the little vessel had gathered way again, the mate came aft and stood by the captain, watching the light on the island.
"Are there still convicts on this island, Don Antonino?" the young man asked.