"Signorino! Signorino!"

"Well, what is it, Salvatore?"

"I have ordered the donkeys for ten o'clock. Then we can go quietly. They

will be at Isola Bella at ten o'clock. I shall bring Maddalena round in

the boat."

"Oh!"

Salvatore chuckled.

"She has got a surprise for you, signore."

"A surprise?"

"Per Dio!"

"What is it?"

His voice was listless, but now he looked at Salvatore.

"I ought not to tell you, signore. But--if I do--you won't ever tell

her?"

"No."

"A new gown, signorino, a beautiful new gown, made by Maria Compagni here

in the Corso. Will you be at Isola Bella with Gaspare by ten o'clock on

the day, signorino?"

"Yes, Salvatore!" Maurice said, in a loud, firm, almost angry voice. "I

will be there. Don't doubt it. Addio Salvatore!"

He got up.

"A rivederci, signore. Ma--"

He got up, too, and bent to pick up his fish-basket.

"No, don't come with me. I'm going up now, straight up by the Castello."

"In all this heat? But it's steep there, signore, and the path is all

covered with stones. You'll never--"

"That doesn't matter. I like the sun. Addio!"

"And this evening, signorino? You are coming to bathe this evening?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. Don't wait for me. Go to sea if you want

to!"

"Birbanti!" muttered the fisherman, as he watched Maurice stride away

across the Piazza, and strike up the mountain-side by the tiny path that

led to the Castello. "You want to get me out of the way, do you?

Birbanti! Ah, you fine strangers from England! You think to come here and

find men that are babies, do you? men that--"

He went off noiselessly on his bare feet, muttering to himself with the

half-smoked cigarette in his lean, brown hand.

Meanwhile, Maurice climbed rapidly up the steep track over the stones in

the eye of the sun. He had not lied to Salvatore. While the fisherman had

been speaking to him he had come to a decision. A disgraceful decision he

knew it to be, but he would keep to it. Nothing should prevent him from

keeping to it. He would be at Isola Bella on the day of the fair. He

would go to San Felice. He would stay there till the last rocket burst in

the sky over Etna, till the last song had been sung, the last toast

shouted, the last tarantella danced, the last--kiss given--the last, the

very last. He would ignore this message from Africa. He would pretend he

had never received it. He would lie about it. Yes, he would lie--but he

would have his pleasure. He was determined upon that, and nothing should

shake him, no qualms of conscience, no voices within him, no memories of

past days, no promptings of duty.




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