Once, when we were running for the
shore, on a December night, the /carabinieri/ fired on us and killed
Gaetano Cremona."
"Your companion?"
"Yes. He was sixteen and he died. The boat was full of his blood."
She shuddered.
"Row in," she said. "That boat must have gone."
"Non, signora. It has not. It is close by and the oars are out of the
water."
He spoke with certainty, as if he saw the boat. Then, reluctantly, he
dipped his oars in the lake, and rowed towards the house, keeping his
head half turned and staring into the darkness with eyes that were still
full of mystery and profound attention.
Lady Holme looked over the water too, but she saw nothing upon its calm
surface.
"Go into the boat-house," she said.
Paolo nodded without speaking. His lips were parted.
"Chi e la?" she heard him whisper to himself.
They were close to the house now. Its high, pale front, full of shuttered
windows, loomed over them, and the roar of the waterfall was loud in
their ears. Paolo turned the boat towards his right, and, almost
directly, Lady Holme saw a dark opening in the solid stone blocks on
which the house was built. The boat glided through it into cover, and the
arrow of light at the prow pierced ebon blackness, while the plash of the
oars made a curious sound, full of sudden desolation and weariness. A bat
flitted over the arrow of light and vanished, and the head of a swimming
rat was visible for a moment, pursued by a wrinkle on the water.
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