When he made no reply - he was repeating 'Gianna' to him­self and marvelling at its musical sound - she said, rushing the words as if embarrassed at her boldness: 'Lieutenant! Repeat after me: "Gianna".'

' "Gee-ah-na",' he said dutifully, and they both laughed.

 He pulled over a chair and sat by the cot. Momentarily he saw Ghiberti's 'Eve', naked and held by cherubs. One of the cherubs had its hand resting on her flat belly and, glancing at Gianna, he realized that she too was naked beneath a thin silk shirt, a quilt and a sheet. He could see the outline of her legs and then the curve of her thighs: they were as slim as those Ghiberti created. And there the cherub rested his hand: and her breasts, too, were as small as Eve's.

 The Captain - he is an old friend?' she said calmly, and he flushed as he realized she had been watching his eyes.

 'No - I've not met him before. What made you think that?' Silly question, but he could think only of her breasts. ...

'Well, he is friendly, and you call him "Sir" and not "My Lord" like everyone else, so I thought you must know each other.'

'No, there's another reason.'

'Secreti?' she asked cautiously.

He laughed. 'No, simply that I'm also a "Lord".'

 'Yes, of course,' she said, her brow wrinkling. 'But that also puzzles me. The men in the boat - why did they not call you "My Lord"?'

'In the Service I do not use my title.'

 'Would it be indiscreet to ask why? Because of your ...' she left the sentence unfinished, once again embarrassed at her boldness.

'No, not entirely because of my father. No - simply that I am a very junior lieutenant, and when the captain and officers are invited to dine on shore many hostesses are puzzled who has precedence at table - a junior lieutenant with a peerage, or a captain without one. If they choose the lieutenant, his captain can feel very insulted. So...'

'So it is more tactful to be just "Mister".'

'Exactly.'

 She suddenly changed the subject. 'Have you talked with my cousin?'

 'No - where is he?' Ramage realized he had not seen him since they came on board.

'He had a bed in the captain's dining-room,' she said.

'In the "coach".'

'Coach? Carrozza? The type with horses?'

 'Are you going to be a sailor or a groom?' he asked teasingly. 'In a ship like this, the captain's quarters are called "The Cabin", but there are really three. The biggest one is aft, through that door, and runs the whole width of the ship, with all the windows in the stern. It's called "the great cabin", and the captain uses it during the day.

'This cabin is the "bed place", or sleeping cabin. The one your cousin occupies, next to this, is called "the coach". Some captains use it as a dining-room, others as an office.'

 'I understand,' she said, and he realized they both felt strangers now they were in more formal surroundings. The neatness and polish of the captain's quarters, with its odd mix­ture of elegant and warlike furnishings - only a few feet away a black-barrelled 12-pounder cannon sat squat on its buff-coloured carriage, secured to the ship's side by heavy ropes and tackles - were far removed from the intimacy of an open boat. The orderliness forced on them a shyness which had previously been crowded out by the dangers of the first hectic hours of their meeting.

 'Nicholas,' she said shyly, pronouncing it 'Nee-koh-lass', 'this is the first time in my adult life I've been alone in a room - or a cabin, for that matter! - with a young man who was not a servant or a member of my family....'

Before Ramage realized what he was doing, he knelt be­side the cot and kissed her full on the lips; and what seemed  hours later, while they both stared as if seeing each other for the first time, she smiled and said, 'Now I know why always I had a chaperone...'

 She raised her left hand and delicately traced the long scar on his forehead. 'How did this happen, Nico?'

Nico, he thought. The affectionate diminutive.

'A sword cut.'

'You were duelling!'

 It was an accusation but - it seemed to him - an accusation revealing her alarm that he should have risked his life.

'No, I wasn't. I was boarding a French ship.'

 Suddenly she remembered something: 'Your head! The wound on your head! Has it healed?'

'I think so.'

'Turn round.'

 Obediently he turned and felt her hand gently moving his hair aside at the back of the scalp.

'Ow!'

 'That did not hurt! The blood has dried in the hair. It did not really hurt, did it ?'

 She sounded both doubtful and contrite and he wished he could see the expression on her face.

'No - I was teasing.'

 'Well, keep still... yes, it is healing well. But you must wash away the blood. I wonder,' she added dreamily, 'if you will have no hair where the scar is, like a mule track through macchia?'

 There was a knock at the door and he just had time to regain his seat before Lord Probus came in, although his sudden movement made the cot swing rather more than the ship's roll could account for.

'Come along, young man,' Probus said in mock severity, 'your fifteen minutes are up. The Surgeon says the Marchesa must rest.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

 'But I have rested sufficiente,' the girl protested mischiev­ously. 'I enjoy having visitors.'

'Well, you'll have to make do with my poor company,' said Probus, 'because Mr Ramage has a report to write.'

 In the great cabin Ramage found an elegantly carved desk, with an inlaid top set facing the stern lights. He sat down and looked out at the smooth wake the frigate was leaving across the surface of the almost harsh blue sea. The prize brig, sails furled on the yards, a white ensign over the Tricolor, was tow­ing astern. The cable, led out of one of the frigate's stern chase gun ports, made a long and graceful curve, its weight making it dip down into the sea before it rose up again to the brig's bow. Occasionally, as the brig yawed and took a sheer to larboard, or starboard, the extra strain flattened the curve, and Ramage could hear the grumbling of the tiller ropes running down to the deck below as the men at the wheel put the Lively's helm up or down, to counteract the cable's sudden tug.

 Several miles beyond the brig was Argentario, distance and heat haze colouring it pearl-grey and smoothing the cliffs and peaks into rounded humps. The sun playing on the olive groves made them look like tiny inlaid squares of silver. The island of Giglio, a dozen miles nearer, was like a whale on the surface basking in the sun. Even closer, and farther to the right, Monte Cristo, with its sheer cliffs, sat like a big, rich brown cake on a vivid blue tablecloth.

 Ramage reached for the quill and as he dipped it in the silver ink-well, saw a letter partly hidden under the sheets of blank paper. He was just going to put it to one side when he remem­bered Probus's curious phrase about not writing his report until he'd read Pisano's complaint.

 Yes, it was from Pisano, written in a sprawling hand, each letter tumbling over its neighbour. So that was why Probus insisted he used the desk...

 The wording of Pisano's complaint was difficult to under­stand: a combination of indignation and near-hysteria played havoc with both his English grammar and vocabulary. As he read it, Ramage realized the words were an echo of the tirade he had last heard - spoken in high-pitched Italian - on the beach at Cala Grande. The letter concluded first with a demand that Tenente Ramage should be severely (underlined three times) punished for cowardice and negligence; and secondly,  with pious expressions of gratitude that God should have been merciful in rescuing them from Tenente Ramage's clutches and delivering them into the capable hands of Il Barone Probus.