Against her breast, to her heart, she clasped—a memory—the sacred memory of him who had loved her, who had taken her to be his, who had given her himself.
CHAPTER XX
That night when Hermione drew near to the island she saw the Saint’s light shining, and remembered how, in the storm, she had longed for it—how, when she had seen it above the roaring sea, she had felt that it was a good omen. To-night it meant nothing to her. It was just a lamp lit, as a lamp might be lit in a street, to give illumination in darkness to any one who passed. She wondered why she had thought of it so strangely.
Gaspare met her at the landing. She noticed at once a suppressed excitement in his manner. He looked at Andrea keenly and suspiciously.
“How late you are, Signora!”
He put out his strong arm to help her to the land.
“Am I, Gaspare? Yes, I suppose I am—you ought all to be in bed.”
“I should not go to bed while you were out, Signora.”
Again she linked Gaspare with her memory, saw the nomad not quite alone on the journey.