CHAPTER XXXI.
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N the shore, in the wild, wet morning, Maurice Sanctis waited for her in vain.
He was too hardy a mountaineer by birth to heed rainy weather; he sat or stood beside her boat in the cleft in the rocks, and patiently counted the hours as they went by. There was nothing to be seen on sea or land; the one was all mist and wind, the other was obscured by the driving sheets of rain. When noon had gone, he gave up all hope of seeing her that day; he knew she did not fear bad weather, yet he thought it was possible the ink-black skies might have deterred her from coming so far as the Sasso Seritto. 'She will be here to-morrow,' he said to himself, and went back to the wretchedness of Telamone.
