Night had come to the Sirens' Isle--a night that was warm, gentle, and

caressing. In the cottage two candles were lit, and the wick was burning

in the glass before the Madonna. Outside the cottage door, on the flat

bit of ground that faced the wide sea, Salvatore and his daughter,

Maurice and Gaspare, were seated round the table finishing their simple

meal, for which Salvatore had many times apologized. Their merry voices,

their hearty laughter rang out in the darkness, and below the sea made

answer, murmuring against the rocks.

At the same moment in an Arab house Hermione bent over a sick man,

praying against death, whose footsteps she seemed already to hear coming

into the room and approaching the bed on which he tossed, white with

agony. And when he was quiet for a little and ceased from moving, she sat

with her hand on his and thought of Sicily, and pictured her husband

alone under the stars upon the terrace before the priest's house, and

imagined him thinking of her. The dry leaves of a palm-tree under the

window of the room creaked in the light wind that blew over the flats,

and she strove to hear the delicate rustling of the leaves of

olive-trees.

Salvatore had little food to offer his guests, only bread, cheese, and

small, black olives; but there was plenty of good red wine, and when the

time of brindisi was come Salvatore and Gaspare called for health after

health, and rivalled each other in wild poetic efforts, improvising

extravagant compliments to Maurice, to the absent signora, to Maddalena,

and even to themselves. And with each toast the wine went down till

Maurice called a halt.

"I am a real Sicilian," he said. "But if I drink any more I shall be

under the table. Get out the cards, Salvatore. Sette e mezzo, and I'll

put down the stakes. No one to go above twenty-five centesimi, with fifty

for the doubling. Gaspare's sure to win. He always does. And I've just

one cigar apiece. There's no wind. Bring out the candles and let's play

out here."

Gaspare ran for the candles while Salvatore got the cards, well-thumbed

and dirty. Maddalena's long eyes were dancing. Such a festa as this was

rare in her life, for, dwelling far from the village, she seldom went to

any dance or festivity. Her blood was warm with the wine and with joy,

and the youth in her seemed to flow like the sea in a flood-tide.

Scarcely ever before had she seen her harsh father so riotously gay, so

easy with a stranger, and she knew in her heart that this was her

festival. Maurice's merry and ardent eyes told her that, and Gaspare's

smiling glances of boyish understanding. She felt excited, almost

light-headed, childishly proud of herself. If only some of the girls of

Marechiaro could see, could know!




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