Gaspare stirred in the boat, lifted his head from his arms and looked sleepily around him. He saw Salvatore lighting a pipe, bending forward over a spluttering match which he held in a cage made of his joined hands. He glanced away from him still sleepily, seeking the padrone, but he saw only the empty seats of the boat, the oars, the coiled-up nets, and lines for the fish.
"Dove—?" he began.
He sat up, stared wildly round.
"Dov'è il padrone?" he cried out, shrilly.
Salvatore started and dropped the match. Gaspare sprang at him.
"Dov'è il padrone? Dov'è il padrone?"
"Sangue di—" began Salvatore.
But the oath died upon his lips. His keen eyes had swept the sea and perceived that it was empty. From its silver the black dot which he had been admiringly watching had disappeared. Gaspare had waked, had asked his fierce question just as Maurice threw up his hands and sank down in his travesty of death.
"He was there! Madonna! He was there swimming a moment ago!" exclaimed Salvatore.
As he spoke he seized the oars, and with furious strokes propelled the boat in the direction Maurice had taken. But Gaspare would not wait. His instinct forbade him to remain inactive.