The voice was weak and muffled, but the words were distinct, and they were the confession of poor Regina’s life.

“If he were here,” she said, after a moment, “I would lay your hand in his.  Only let me take that memory with me!”

The young girl rose and bent over her as she answered.

“It is yours, to keep for ever.”

She stooped a little lower and kissed the dying woman’s forehead.

* * * * *

Under the May moon a little brigantine came sailing up to a low island just within sight of Italy; when she was within half a mile of the reefs Don Antonino Maresca put her about, for he was a prudent man, and he knew that there are just a few more rocks in the sea than are in the charts.  It was a quiet night, and he was beating up against a gentle northerly breeze.

When the head yards were swung, and braced sharp up for the other tack, and the little vessel had gathered way again, the mate came aft and stood by the captain, watching the light on the island.

“Are there still convicts on this island, Don Antonino?” the young man asked.

“Yes, there are the convicts.  And there is one among them whom I helped to put there.  He is an assassin that killed many when he was at liberty.  But now he sits for seven years in a little cell alone, and sees no Christian, and it will be thirty years before he is free.”

“Madonna!” ejaculated the mate.  “When he has been there thirty years he will perhaps understand.”

“It is as I say,” rejoined the captain.  “The world is made so.  There are the good and the bad.  The Eternal Father has created things thus.  Get a little more on the main sheet, and then flatten in those jibs.”

Under the May moon, in the small shaft of white light that fell through the narrow grated window, a man sat on the edge of his pallet bed.  His face was ghastly, and there were strange scars on his bare throat.  His cell was seven feet by six, and the air was hard to breathe, because the wind was not from the south.  But the moon was kinder than the sun.  He heard the ripple of the cool sea, and he tried to dream that a great stone was hung to his neck, and that he had been thrown into a deep place.  Perhaps, some day, the gaoler would forget to take away the coarse towel which was brought with the water in the morning.  With a towel he could hang himself.

* * * * *

Under the May moon a small marble cross cast its shadow upon young roses and violets and growing myrtle.  In the sweet earth below a very loyal heart was at rest for ever.  But the flowers were planted and still tended by a woman with radiant hair; and sometimes, when she stooped to train the young roses, bright drops fell quietly upon their bloom.  Also, on certain days, a man came there alone and knelt upon the marble border within which the flowers grew.  But the man and the woman never came together; and he gave the gardener of that place money, praising him for the care of the flowers.