He held her hands.
"Maddalena!" he said, and there was in his voice a startled sound. "Maddalena!"
Again Hermione had risen up before him in the night, almost as one who walked upon the sea. He was conscious of wrong-doing. The innocence of his relation with Maddalena seemed suddenly to be tarnished, and the happiness of the starry night to be clouded. He felt like one who, in summer, becomes aware of a heaviness creeping into the atmosphere, the message of a coming tempest that will presently transform the face of nature. Surely there was a mist before the faces of the stars.
She said nothing, only looked at him as if she wanted to know many things which only he could tell her, which he had begun to tell her. That was her fascination for his leaping youth, his wild heart of youth—this ignorance and this desire to know. He had sat in spirit at the feet of Hermione and loved her with a sort of boyish humbleness. Now one sat at his feet. And the attitude woke up in him a desire that was fierce in its intensity—the desire to teach Maddalena the great realities of love.
"Hi—yi—yi—yi—yi!"
Faintly there came to them a cry across the sea.
"Gaspare!" Maurice said.
He turned his head. In the darkness, high up, he saw a light, descending, ascending, then describing a wild circle.
"Hi—yi—yi—yi!"
"Row back, signorino! They have done playing, and my father will be angry."