Ramage held out his hand, and the doctor shook it firmly.

 'My friend,' the little man said, 'we are strangers: I can therefore speak with a certain frankness. Inside me here' - he tapped his left breast - 'I have more sympathy for the cause you are helping than I would dare admit to one of my fel­low countrymen. But then you English - you must find us strange people: people apparently without morals, without lasting loyalties, without traditions that mean anything. But have you ever wondered why? Have you?'

'No,’ Ramage admitted.

 'You are an island race. For more than seven hundred years no enemy has ever occupied your island, even for a day. No  one in your family's history has had to bow to a foreign con­queror to prevent his family being murdered and his estates confiscated.

'But we' - he gave a despairing shrug - 'we of the Italian states are invaded, occupied, liberated and invaded again nearly every decade: it is as inevitable as the passing of the seasons. Yet, my friend, we have to stay alive. Just as a ship has to alter course, to tack, when the wind changes, if she is to arrive at her destination, so do we, if we are to get to our destination. My destination - and I am honest about it - is to reach old age and meet death sitting up comfortably in my bed.

 'Years ago, my friend, the wind of history was the Libeccio, blowing us invaders from Spain; then from the north-west came the Hapsburgs. Today it is the Tramontana, coming across the Alps from France. Although our Grand Duke made us the first state in Europe to recognize the French Republic, little good it has done us: Bonaparte walks through our cities like a conqueror.

 'For myself, I am a royalist and I hate them - or, rather, the anarchy and atheism they stand for. But who are we real Tus­cans (as opposed to the Hapsburg Tuscans) against so many? So let us hope the wind changes again before long.

 'Forgive this long speech: I am nearly at the end of it. I want to say’ - and now he spoke in an embarrassed rush - 'that although I have to alter course, I recognize in you a brave man — one who, because of his island tradition, would die rather than alter course. I also recognize a brave woman, and she' - he pointed to the Marchesa - 'is such a one. Although she has inherited a different tradition from yours, it is a family one which is just as strong. So, my friend, until the wind changes again, I shall remember nothing of today's events.'

 'Thank you,' Ramage said. It seemed an inadequate reply; but there was little else he could say.

With THE bright moon making a sharp mosaic of light and shadow it was hard to judge the distance to the beach, but as far as Ramage could make out the gig was now half a mile off Punta Lividonia.

'Are you comfortable?' he whispered to the girl in Italian.

'Yes, thank you. Will your people come?'

'I hope so. We deserve some good luck.'

‘Yes - touch iron!'

‘Touch some wood as well.'

‘Why?'

'In England we touch wood for luck, not iron.'

 He saw her reach out and feel for the bottom boards on which she was lying. He then took her hand and guided it to the metal tiller. 'That will do for iron!'

 The men, whispering among themselves, seemed completely unworried; quite happy to live for the present moment and leave the next one to him. If only he had as much confidence in his own judgement as apparently they had ... Now the gig was out here, Ramage could think of a dozen reasons why the frigate would not arrive.

A few moments later the girl said in a low voice: 'May I ask you something, if I whisper?'

'Yes,' he said, bending so that his head was near hers.

'Your parents — where are they now?'

'Living in England: at the family home in Cornwall.'

'Tell me about your home.'

'It’s called Blazey Hall: it was a priory once.' That was a tactless remark to make to a Catholic.

'A priory?'

‘Yes - Henry VIII confiscated much land from the Catholic Church and gave or sold it to his favourites.'

'Your family were his favourites ?'

'I suppose so: it is a long time ago.'

‘What is it like - the palazzo?'

 How could he describe the mellowed stone against the background of great spreading oaks, the riot of colour in the flower gardens his mother supervised so lovingly, the sense of peace, the polished yet comfortable furniture, to an Italian used to the flamboyant yet strangely arid Tuscan countryside and the palazzi which could never be homes because of their sparse furniture and the attitude of their owners? And a measure of the difficulty was that English was one of the few - if not the only - languages which had the word 'home' in it. Vado a casa mia – I’m going to my house.

 'It's hard to describe. You must go and stay with my parents and see for yourself.'

 'Yes. The idea frightens me a little. Your father - he must be too old to be at sea with a fleet?'

 'No - he ... well, I'll explain when there is more time: politics are involved: there was a trial and now he is out of favour with the Government.'

'Does this affect you too?'

'In a way, yes - my father has many enemies.'

'And through you, they try to wound him?'

‘Yes. It's natural, I suppose.'

 'Normal,' she said with unexpected bitterness, 'but scarcely natural!'

'You don't remember me from when you were a little girl?'

'No - at least, sometimes I can picture your parents and a little boy - a very shy boy; then when I try to remember an­other time my mind is empty. Do you remember me?' she asked shyly, almost cautiously.

 'I don't remember you: I remember a little girl who, for the mischief she caused, was more like a little boy!'

 'Yes, I can imagine that. My mother wanted a son so des­perately: she treated me as if I was a boy - I had to ride a horse as well as my male cousins, use a pistol and fence - oh, everything. I loved it, too.'

'And now?'

‘Now it has to be different: when my mother died I be­came responsible for five big estates and more than a thousand people: overnight I became a Marchesa. Every morning is  taken up with estate affairs and I have to be molto serio and every evening with social affairs, when I have to be molto sociale. No more riding, except in a carriage with postilions, no more—'

'Don't say "No more pistols"!'

‘Well, that was the first time for years. Did I frighten you?'

‘Yes - mainly because I thought you didn't know how to handle it. How did the estates descend to you and not a cousin?'

 'Some ancient decree or dispensation: if there is no son everything passes through the female line until there is a son. If I marry—'

 Ramage touched her to stop her talking: one or two of the men were pointing uncertainly over the starboard quarter. He turned and saw several small, indistinct darker patches on the sea. They were too big, and moving too steadily, for dolphins, which loved to leap and jink, playing in the sea like children, and which lookouts often mistook for small craft. But maybe they were fishermen, returning from a day's fish­ing.

 'Five boats, sir,' whispered Jackson. 'Full o' men and oars muffled. I reckon it's them, sir!'

 'Ready, men - we'll cut across their bows: quietly, then - oars ready... out... give way together....'

Now came the most dangerous part: he had to attract the boats' attention and identify himself without raising the alarm on shore. A quick hail, using a typically English expression, would do the job, Ramage decided.

 How far now? About fifty yards and the beach was at least another five hundred yards beyond. He stood up and cupped his hands to his mouth to aim his voice: