And the launch, unperturbed, held its course towards the glow-worm lights of Isola Nobile.
The Commendatore stared. . . .
For a matter of five seconds, his brows knitted together, his mouth half open, the Commendatore stared, now at Susanna, now after the bobbing lanterns of the launch,—whilst, clear in the suspension, the choir of nightingales sobbed and shouted.
"Your orders?" he faltered at last. Many emotions were concentrated in the pronoun.
"Yes," said Susanna, with a naturalness that perhaps was studied. "The first act of my reign."
He had never known her to give an order before, without asking permission; and this, in any case, was such an incomprehensible order. How, for instance, was she to get back to the palace?
"But how on earth," he puzzled, "will you get back to——"
"Oh, I 'm not returning to Isola Nobile tonight," Susanna jauntily mentioned, her chin a little perked up in the air. Then, with the sweetest smile—through which there pierced, perhaps, just a faint glimmer of secret mischief?—"I 'm starting on my wander-year," she added, and waved her hand imperially towards the open sea.
It was a progression of surprises for the tall, thin old Commendatore. No sooner had Susanna thus bewilderingly spoken, than the rub and dip of oars became audible, rhythmically nearing; and a minute after, from the outer darkness, a row-boat, white and slender, manned by two rowers in smart nautical uniforms, shot forward into the light, and drew up alongside the quay.
"A boat from the Fiorimondo," he gasped, in stupefaction.