It was well for him that his hand had not been raised that afternoon to deal the one blow that would have decided his life.

It was well that it was the summer time and that when he had put the helm down to go about there had been no white squall seething along with its wake of snowy foam from a quarter of a mile to windward.

It would have been all over now and those great moments down there by the rocks would never have been lived.
"Through the arch, Ruggiero," said San Miniato to him as the boat cleared the rocks of the landward needle.
"Let us go home," said Beatrice, with a little impatience in her voice.
"I am so tired." Would she be tired of such a night if she loved the man beside her?
Ruggiero thought not, any more than he would ever be weary of being near her to steer the boat that bore her--even for ever.
"It is so beautiful," said San Miniato.
Beatrice said nothing, but made an impatient movement that betrayed that she was displeased.
"Home, Ruggiero," said San Miniato's voice.
"Make sail!" Ruggiero called out, he himself hauling out the mizzen.

A minute later the sails filled and the boat sped out over the smooth water, white-winged as a sea-bird under the great summer moon..