bronze melts under the flames. She was more able to feel sorrow for him than she had been before in the unthinking hardness of her ignorance of love. But she was still offended, troubled, and perplexed.
She was silent awhile, watching the motionless body of the kingfisher glancing like a jewel in the sun. The sailor watched her as she stood erect on the edge of the waves.
He thought to himself, should he tell her of Saturnino? Should he tell her whence she took her grand luminous eyes, her passion for freedom, her strength of body and spirit?
But how should she believe him if he did?
How should he persuade her that he spoke the truth? And how much it would wound her, humble her, make her ashamed, to know herself the daughter of that galley-slave, that mountain thief, that murderer, whom she had abhorred whilst she had pitied him! He dared not; she would but hate him himself the more.
He said to her only: 'Do you remember that day by the stagno, when you were sorry to see the brigand of Santa Fiora working like an ox in a yoke?'
