She even amazed him a little by the sheer impetuosity of her speech.
"Is there much at stake, _signorina_ ?" he asked, at last, as she paused for breath.
"_A man's soul is at stake_!" was the answering cry that rang through the quiet room.
The Captain of the Port smiled a little cynically, scarcely understanding.
Yet something almost fatherly about his sad and wistful face steeled her to still further persistence, and she afterward remembered, always a little shamefaced, that she had wept and clung to his arm and wept still again, before she melted and bent him from his official determination.

She saw, through blurred and misty eyes, his hand go out and touch an electric button at his side.

She saw him write three lines on a sheet of paper, an attendant appear, and heard an order briefly and succinctly given.

She had gained her end.
The Captain of the Port rose as she turned to go from the room.
"Good night, and also good-bye, _signorina_!" he said quietly, with his stately, old-world bow.
She paused at the door, wordlessly demeaned, momentarily ashamed of herself.

She felt, in some way, how miserable and low and self-seeking she stood beneath him, how high and firm he stood above her, with his calm and disinterested kindliness.
She turned back to him once more.
"Good-bye," she said inadequately, in her tearful and tremulous contralto.