They were taken out of the port and carried eastward by a gentle breeze. Some clouds tempered the sunlight, and the hour was always deepening toward the supreme beauty of evening. Sails larger and smaller changed their aspect like sensitive things, and made a cheerful companionship, alternately near and far. The grand city shone more vaguely, the mountains looked out above it, and there was stillness as in an island sanctuary. Yet suddenly Gwendolen let her hands fall, and said in a scarcely audible tone, “God help me!”
“What is the matter?” said Grandcourt, not distinguishing the words.
“Oh, nothing,” said Gwendolen, rousing herself from her momentary forgetfulness and resuming the ropes.
“Don’t you find this pleasant?” said Grandcourt.
“Very.”
“You admit now we couldn’t have done anything better?”
“No—I see nothing better. I think we shall go on always, like the Flying Dutchman,” said Gwendolen wildly.
Grandcourt gave her one of his narrow examining glances, and then said, “If you like, we can go to Spezia in the morning, and let them take us up there.”
“No; I shall like nothing better than this.”
“Very well: we’ll do the same to-morrow. But we must be turning in soon. I shall put about.”