The hard note in Ramage's voice warned Pisano it was no idle threat. He sat down abruptly just as the Marchesa, in a weak voice, called out:

'Luigi - please!'

She was trying to sit up, but Ramage reached out in time to stop her, his hand in the darkness accidentally pressing down on one of her breasts. He said in Italian:

'Madam - don't distress yourself. I let him talk in the hope his tongue would tire. But we can't waste any more time.'

She did not answer; and Ramage leaned back against the gunwale. If he'd been in Florence when he told Pisano he was squealing like a sow having piglets, the man would plan swift revenge. For a shallow fop like Pisano, the only thing that mattered in life was that he shouldn't make a brutta figura. Pisano's type could never understand honour in the normal sense: he would break an oath without compunction; cheat, lie and deceive without giving it a thought. In fact these things were part of his code; the code by which he and his kind lived their lives, so that anyone doing the same to him would not upset him unduly, since he would have been expecting it. But let anyone laugh because he tripped over a loose carpet, let someone even hint that he was not a real man, not the finest horseman, the most courteous fellow that ever entered a drawing-room, the most accomplished lover in Tuscany: let anyone cast a slur on his vulgar virility: then that person had a mortal, albeit cowardly, enemy. Someone like Pisano would never make an open challenge unless he had an overwhelming advantage: no, it would be a case of a few whispered words to a man with a dagger. Pisano's honour would be satisfied the moment he paid cash to the hired assassin reporting that he had completed the task.

Ramage noticed the outline of the boat and men was getting clearer. The oarsmen in the darkness looked like tombstones constantly bowing to him; but now their silhouettes were turning from black to dark grey, and the stars were growing dimmer. The false dawn, Nature's daily deceit. They had been rowing without rest for nearly three hours.

Once they reached Cala Grande, the port of Santo Stefano would be separated from them overland by the short and thick peninsula of Punta Lividonia. With luck, he'd be able to find a track from the cliffs above Cala Grande leading across the high ridge of rock forming the neck of the peninsula direct to the town - probably between the twin peaks of Spaccabellezze and Spadino.

Grey, grey, grey... the men were grey; the girl on her altar of bottom boards was grey; the waves surging past the boat in small toppling pyramids were grey and steely, cold and menacing to the eye. The wind was increasing slightly from the south and the boat was pitching gently like a see-saw as each wave coming up behind lifted for a few moments first the stern and then the bow as it swept forward.

THE SEAMEN hauled the gig up the narrow beach at Cala Grande. Without waiting for orders from Ramage, two of them found a way to the top of the cliff and were soon hurling down bundles of light brushwood and dry grass which the others hurriedly made into a rough bed, using the grass as a mattress.

At a signal from Ramage, they lifted the Marchesa from the boat, using the bottom boards as a stretcher. They handled her with a gentleness which a stranger would not have credited: Ramage saw that each man showed a curious mixture of a proud but timid father holding his baby for the first time, and a well-trained seaman picking up a smoking grenade that might explode any moment.

Ramage had purposely not interfered, realizing their genuine concern for her. He also sensed there was no hint of lewd curiosity - although that would have been natural enough since most of them had not seen a woman for many months. Nor did it enter his head that they might be doing it for his sake as much as hers.

The seamen completely ignored Pisano as they went about their work; in fact they avoided him as though he was a leper. The Italian, unused to such treatment, reacted curiously, since in his estimation seamen were on the same level as peasants. He tried to start a conversation with Smith, no doubt realizing he was in effect third in command of the party. Although Pisano's English had a heavy accent, he spoke clearly; but Smith merely shook his head politely and said, 'Non savvy, Mr Jaw-me-down,' and Pisano had nodded, not realizing he was being answered in a mixture of sailors pidgin English and slang, as though he was a Negro who was also loudmouthed. When he asked another sailor for a drink of water, the man just looked him up and down and continued his work.

'Why do they not answer me?' Pisano asked Ramage.

'They are not obliged to do so.'

Looking at his watch, Ramage saw it was 8.30 am: high time he and Jackson were on their way to the town. He glanced along the beach, where two of the seamen were sweeping the sand, using the branch of a bush to smooth out footprints and the deep furrow left by the keel of the boat.

Already the air was hot, warning of a scorching day. Seaward he could see the island of Giglio a dozen miles away, a low, triple hump. The sun sparkled off the sea, and haze hung low on the horizon, faintly purple, blurring the line where sea and sky joined.

The rest of the men were sitting on the sand near the boat munching the bread and sipping the water that Jackson had just issued to them. Ramage called to Jackson and Smith. As soon as they stood before him he said:

'Listen carefully, you two: Jackson, you'll come with me to the village, and Smith, you'll be in charge here. If the Italian gentleman wishes to stay with the boat he'll be under your care' - he chose his words carefully - 'just as if he's one of the crew. You understand me, Smith?'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'The lady, Smith, is to be protected at all costs. I expect we'll be away two or three hours; but if we aren't back by sunset we shan't be back at all. In that case you'll launch the boat as soon as it is dark and take the lady to the rendezvous off Giglio. Report what's happened as soon as you get on board the frigate. You know the urgency ... Can you read a chart?'

'Sort of, sir.'

"Well, here it is: study it while I'm gone. If you don't meet the frigate, go on to Bastia. You understand? Carry on, then.'

As soon as Smith had gone back to the boat, out of earshot, Jackson said, 'Sir, would you like me to make absolutely sure that he...'

'Yes, but be discreet: I don't want them to fetch him a clout with the flat edge of a cutlass just because he sneezes.'

As soon as Ramage saw no one was within earshot of the girl, he went over and knelt down beside her. She was awake: her face was pale and her eyes bright, and he saw she had been trying to tidy her hair with her left hand.

'Madam,' he said quietly, and she at once put out a hand towards him. He was too surprised to do anything for a moment, then he took it in his, and she whispered:

'Where is my cousin?'

'Some distance away.'

'Lieutenant, I want to ask you a question. My other cousin, Pitti: you went back to him on the beach, did you not?'

The question was so unexpected that he stiffened, and the hand squeezed his, as if trying to tell him something she could not, or would not, put into words.

'Madam, I don't want to go over all that again; not now, anyway.'

'But you did?' she insisted. When he made no reply she said impulsively, 'I know you did.'

Oh, to hell with it. "You didn't see me: how can you know?'

'I just know: I am a woman. He was dead?'

Again he did not answer, but was puzzled by his own silence. What was stopping him? Suddenly he knew it was just pride - he was angry that anyone should doubt him. As soon as he realized that, he decided to tell her the whole story, but just as he was trying to think how to begin, she whispered, 'You need not answer. But Lieutenant...'