The vast scheme of the world narrowed; the wide horizons vanished. There was nothing beyond the limit of her heart. She felt, as almost all believing human beings feel in such moments, that God's attention was entirely concentrated upon her life, that no other claimed His care, begged for His pity, demanded His tenderness because hers was so intense.
Did God wish to lose her love? Surely not! Then He could not commit this frightful act which she feared. He had not committed it.
A sort of relief crept through her as she thought this. Her agony of apprehension was suddenly lessened, was almost driven out.
God wants to be loved by the beings He has created. Then He would not deliberately, arbitrarily destroy a love already existing in the heart of one of them—a love thankful to Him, enthusiastically grateful for happiness bestowed by Him.
Beyond the darkness of the point there came out of the dimness of the night that brooded above the open sea a moving darkness, and Hermione heard the splash of oars in the calm water. She got up quickly. Now her body was trembling again. She stared at the boat as if she would force it to yield its secret to her eyes. But that was only for an instant. Then her ears seemed to be seeking the truth, seeking it from the sound of the oars in the water!
There was no rhythmic regularity in the music they made, no steadiness, no—no—
She listened passionately, instinctively bending down her head sideways. It seemed to her that she was listening to a drunken man rowing. Now there was a quick beating of the oars in the water, then silence, then a heavy splash as if one of the oars had escaped from an uncertain hand, then some uneven strokes, one oar striking the water after the other.
"But Gaspare is a contadino," she said to herself, "not a fisherman. Gaspare is a contadino and—"
"Gaspare!" she called out. "Gaspare!"
The boat stopped midway in the mouth of the inlet.