And then a horrible conception of Emilio’s role in all this darted into his mind, and for a moment he thought of Hermione as a blind innocent, like his subservient mother, of Vere as a preordained victim. Then the blood coursed through his veins like fire, and he felt as if he could no longer sit still in the boat.
“Avanti! avanti!” he cried to the sailors. “Dio mio! There is enough breeze to sail. Run up the sail! Madonna Santissima! We shall not be to Naples till it is night. Avanti! avanti!”
Then he lay back, crossed his arms behind his head, and, with an effort, closed his eyes.
He was determined to be calm, not to let himself go. He put his fingers on his pulse.
“That cursed fever! I believe it is coming back,” he said to himself.
He wondered how soon the Signora would arrange that dinner on the island. He did not feel as if he could wait long without seeing Vere again. But would it ever be possible to see her alone? Emilio saw her alone. His white hairs brought him privileges. He might take her out upon the sea.
The Marchesino still had his fingers on his pulse. Surely it was fluttering very strangely. Like many young Italians he was a mixture of fearlessness and weakness, of boldness and childishness.
“I must go to mamma! I must have medicine—the doctor,” he thought, anxiously. “There is something wrong with me. Perhaps I have been looked on by the evil eye.”
And down he went to the bottom of a gulf of depression.