The Call of the Blood

Salvatore had turned down his thumb that day.

Maurice was not afraid of him. Physically, he was quite fearless. But

this sensation of having been secretly condemned made him feel hard,

cruel, ready, perhaps, to do a thing not natural to him, to sacrifice

another who had never done him wrong. At that moment it seemed to him

that it would be more manly to triumph over Salvatore by a double

betrayal than to "run straight," conquer himself and let men not of his

code think of him as they would.

Not of his code! But what was his code? Was it that of England or that of

Sicily? Which strain of blood was governing him to-day? Which strain

would govern him finally? Artois would have had an interesting specimen

under his observant eyes had he been at the fair of San Felice.

Maddalena willingly obeyed Maurice's suggestion.

"Get well into the shade," he said. "There's just enough to hold us, if

we sit close together. You don't mind that, do you?"

"No, signore."

"Put your back against the trunk--there."

He kept his hat off. Over the railway line from the hot-looking sea there

came a little breeze that just moved his short hair and the feathers of

gold about Maddalena's brow. In the watercourse, but at some distance,

they saw the black crowd of men and women and beasts swarming over the

hot stones.

"How can they?" Maurice muttered, as he looked down.

"Cosa?"

He laughed.

"I was thinking out loud. I meant how can they bargain and bother hour

after hour in all that sun!"

"But, signorino, you would not have them pay too much!" she said, very

seriously. "It is dreadful to waste soldi."

"I suppose--yes, of course it is. Oh, but there are so many things worth

more than soldi. Dio mio! Let's forget all that!"

He waved his hand towards the crowd, but he saw that Maddalena was

preoccupied. She glanced towards the watercourse rather wistfully.

"What is it, Maddalena? Ah, I know! The blue dress and the ear-rings! Per

Bacco!"

"No, signore--no, signore!"

She disclaimed quickly, reddening.

"Yes, it is. I had forgotten. But we can't go now. Maddalena, we will buy

them this evening. Directly it gets cool we'll go, directly we've rested

a little. But don't think of them now. I've promised, and I always keep a

promise. Now, don't think of that any more!"

He spoke with a sort of desperation. The fair seemed to be his enemy, and

he had thought that it would be his friend. It was like a personage with

a stronger influence than his, an influence that could take away that

which he wished to retain, to fix upon himself.