“Nicolò went to Zlarin, and within a month he had sent for Christine. The trouble which had banished him from the city was a trouble no more. The police had forgotten him, or cared to remember him no longer. He had a right to such help in the hut which he had built upon the island; and the law gave me no claim upon his sister. Yet I parted from her as from one of my own, for she had been the light of my house, and oh, excellency! it is good to give bread to a little child.
“‘Andrea, dear Andrea,’ she cried to me when I put her into the boat—for Andrea is my true name, signor—‘you love me, Andrea; then why do you send me to Nicolò?’
“‘Child,’ I answered, ‘God knows that I love you. But he is your brother, and it is right that you should be with him.’
“‘He will beat me, Andrea.’
“‘As he does to you, so will I do to him a hundredfold.’
“‘I have no one to help me in Zlarin, Andrea.’
“‘Nay, but you shall make friends, little one.’
“‘You will come and see me often—if you love me, Andrea?’
“‘Before the seventh day passes I shall be at Nicolò’s door, Christine. Oh, have no fear; am I not your father, child? Nay, but I will write to the priest at Zlarin, and you shall be his charge.’
“So I comforted her, excellency; yet was my heart heavy for her as she put her arms about my neck, and laid her pretty face upon my shoulder, bidding me ‘Good-bye,’ and again ‘Good-bye,’ until my hands were wet with her tears and my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth. Her brother had sent a neighbour to carry her in his fishing-boat to the island; and it was noon of the day when at last she left me. I watched the sails of the ship until they were hidden by the headland of the gulf, and then returned with heavy foot to my own labour. Nor did I know that God had willed it that I should not see little Christine again until four years had made a woman of her, and of me an old and time-worn man.”