Gualtier made no observation, but proceeded with his narrative.
"We sailed for two days, and, at length, came to within about fifty miles of Leghorn. During all that time she had been cheerful, and was much on deck. She tried to read, but did not seem able to do so. She seemed to be involved in thought, as a general thing; and, by the occasional questions which she asked, I saw that all her thoughts were about you and Naples. So passed the two days, and the second night came."
Gualtier paused.
Hilda sat motionless, without saying a word. Gualtier himself seemed reluctant to go on; but he had to conclude his narrative, and so he forced himself to proceed.
"It was midnight"--he went on, in a very low voice--"it was exceedingly dark. The day had been fine, but the sky was now all overclouded. The sea, however, was comparatively smooth, and every thing was favorable to the undertaking. The boat was all ready. It was a good-sized boat, which we had towed behind us. I had prepared a mast and a sail, and had put some provisions in the locker. The men were all expecting--"
"Never mind your preparations," exclaimed Hilda, fiercely. "Omit all that--go on, and don't kill me with your long preliminaries."
"If you had such a story to tell," said Gualtier, humbly, "you would be glad to take refuge for a little while in preliminaries."
Hilda said nothing.
"It was midnight," said Gualtier, resuming his story once more, and speaking with perceptible agitation in the tones of his voice--"it was midnight, and intensely dark. The men were at the bow, waiting. All was ready. In the cabin all had been still for some time. Her lights had been put out an hour previously--"
"Well?" said Hilda, with feverish impatience, as he again hesitated.