The sea was perfectly placid; the air was still without wind; the moon had now risen, and seemed like a friend in the sky. In Santa Tarsilla no one had awakened; all was still. She was safe, and her errand was done.
When at length the boat reached the place on the sands where the low myrtles and rosemary grew well-nigh to the edge of the sea—the place where Saturnino had sat on the sand and cursed mankind and his own soul—the lovely vermilion hue of early daybreak in the Maremma was slowly spreading over the heavens.
She sprang into the water, and with infinite tenderness and solemn care drew the boat with its freight upon the shore, amidst the sea-stocks and the samphire.
Then she dragged her weary feet over the three miles of heath that lay between her and the Etruscan tomb. She went down into the grave, stirred the old mule from his slumber, and placed his pack-saddle on his back; followed by Leone, she led him by the bridle to the shore. She was now so fatigued that her limbs shook under her, and her head swam. But she pursued her way.
Reaching the edge of the waves, she
