The Call of the Blood

"Quite true."

"He cannot walk with her here. He cannot even walk with her down the

street of Marechiaro alone. It would be a shame."

"But there is no harm in it."

"Who knows? It is not our custom. We walk with our friends and the girls

walk with their friends. If Salvatore, the father of Maddalena, knew--"

He did not finish his sentence, but, with sudden and startling violence,

made the gesture of drawing out a knife and thrusting it upward into the

body of an adversary. Maurice stopped on the path. He felt as if he had

seen a murder.

"Ecco!" said Gaspare, calmly, dropping his hand, and staring into

Maurice's face with his enormous eyes, which never fell before the gaze

of another.

"But--but--I mean no harm to Maddalena."

"It does not matter."

"But she did not tell me. She is ready to talk with me."

"She is a silly girl. She is flattered to see a stranger. She does not

think. Girls never think."

He spoke with utter contempt: "Have you seen Salvatore, signore?"

"No--yes."

"You have seen him?"

"Not to speak to. When I came down the cottage was shut up. I waited--"

"You hid, signore?"

Maurice's face flushed. An angry word rose to his lips, but he checked it

and laughed, remembering that he had to deal with a boy, and that

Gaspare was devoted to him.

"Well, I waited among the trees--birbante!"

"And you saw Salvatore?"

"He came out and went down to the fishing."

"Salvatore is a terrible man. He used to beat his wife Teresa."

"P'f! Would you have me be afraid of him?"

Maurice's blood was up. Even his sense of romance was excited. He felt

that he was in the coils of an adventure, and his heart leaped, but not

with fear.

"Fear is not for men. But the padrona has left you with me because she

trusts me and because I know Sicily."

It seemed to Maurice that he was with an inflexible chaperon, against

whose dominion it would be difficult, if not useless, to struggle. They

were walking on again, and had come into the ravine. Water was slipping

down among the rocks, between the twisted trunks of the olive-trees. Its

soft sound, and the cool dimness in this secret place, made Maurice

suddenly realize that he had passed the night without sleep, and that he

would be glad to rest. It was not the moment for combat, and it was not

unpleasant, after all--so he phrased it in his mind--to be looked after,

thought for, educated in the etiquette of the Enchanted Isle by a son of

its soil, with its wild passions and its firm repressions linked together

in his heart.