She knew that in her new rôle she was as likely as not to be a rank failure. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. "That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. ” “Ay,” he repeated, looking away from her. Pearls in the dawn light, flashing and burning! "You don't like your island?" "I hate it!… But, there!"—weariness edging in. .
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