A low growl from Nino interrupted the conversation.  It was very low and long and then rose quickly and ended in a short bark, as the dog gathered his powerful hindquarters suddenly and raised himself, bristling all over and thrusting his sinewy forepaws out before him.  Then the growl began again, but Ercole touched him lightly with the toe of his hob-nailed boot, and the dog was instantly silent.  Both men looked about, but no one was to be seen.

“There is a boat on the beach,” said Padre Francesco, who had caught the faint soft sound of the keel running upon the sand.

They both rose, Ercole picking up his gun as he did so; Nino, seeing that his master was on the alert, slunk to his heels without growling any more.  A moment later a man’s voice was heard calling on the other side of the tower.

“Hi!  Watchman of the tower!  A favour!  Watchman of the tower!  Hi!”

Padre Francesco turned the corner, followed by Ercole.  A sailor in scanty ragged clothes and the remains of a rush hat was standing barefoot in the burning sand, with an earthen jug in his hand.  A battered boat, from which all traces of paint had long since disappeared, was lying with her nose buried in the sand, not moving in the oily water.  Another man was in her, very much like the first in looks.

On seeing Nino at Ercole’s heels, the man who was ashore drew back with an exclamation, as if he were going to run away, but Ercole spoke in a reassuring tone.

“Be not afraid,” he said.  “This dog does not eat Christians.  He gets enough to eat at home.  He is not a dog, he is a lamb, and most affectionate.”

“It is an evil beast,” observed the sailor, looking at Nino.  “I am afraid.”

“What do you desire?” inquired Padre Francesco politely.  “Is it water that you wish?”

“As a favour,” answered the man, seeing that the dog did not fly at him.  “A little water to drink.  We have been pulling all day; it is hot, and we have drunk what we had.”

“Come with me,” said Padre Francesco.  “Where is your vessel?”

“At Fiumicino.  The master sent us on an errand to Porto d’Anzio last night and we are going back.”

“It is a long pull,” observed the watchman.  “Tell the other man to come ashore and rest in the shade.  I also have been to sea.  The water is not very good here, but what there is you shall have.”

“Thank you,” said the man gratefully, and giving Nino a very wide berth as he followed Padre Francesco.  “We could have got some water at the Incastro creek, but it would have been the same as drinking the fever.”

“May the Madonna never will that you drink of it,” said Padre Francesco, as they reached the shady side of the tower.  “I see that you know the Roman shore.”

“It is our business,” replied the man, taking off his ragged rush hat, and rubbing his still more ragged blue cotton sleeve over his wet forehead.  “We are people of the sea, bringing wine and lemons to Civita Vecchia and taking charcoal back.  Evil befall this calm weather.”