Once again, and in all the glowing sunshine, with Etna and the sea before
her, and the sound of Sebastiano's flute in her ears, she was on the
Thames Embankment in the night with Artois, and heard his deep voice
speaking to her.
"Does he know his own blood?" said the voice. "Our blood governs us when
the time comes."
And again the voice said: "The possible call of the blood that he doesn't understand."
"The call of the blood." There was now something almost terrible to
Hermione in that phrase, something menacing and irresistible. Were men,
then, governed irrevocably, dominated by the blood that was in them?
Artois had certainly seemed to imply that they were, and he knew men as
few knew them. His powerful intellect, like a search-light, illumined the
hidden places, discovering the concealed things of the souls of men. But
Artois was not a religious man, and Hermione had a strong sense of
religion, though she did not cling, as many do, to any one creed. If the
call of the blood were irresistible in a man, then man was only a slave.
The criminal must not be condemned, nor the saint exalted. Conduct was
but obedience in one who had no choice but to obey. Could she believe
that?
The dance grew wilder, swifter. Sebastiano quickened the time till he was
playing it prestissimo. One of the boys, Giulio, dropped out exhausted.
Then another, Alfio, fell against the terrace wall, laughing and wiping
his streaming face. Finally Giuseppe gave in, too, obviously against his
will. But Gaspare and Maurice still kept on. The game was certainly a
duel now--a duel which would not cease till Sebastiano put an end to it
by laying down his flute. But he, too, was on his mettle and would not
own fatigue. Suddenly Hermione felt that she could not bear the dance any
more. It was, perhaps, absurd of her. Her brain, fatigued by travel, was
perhaps playing her tricks. But she felt as if Maurice were escaping from
her in this wild tarantella, like a man escaping through a fantastic
grotto from some one who called to him near its entrance. A faint
sensation of something that was surely jealousy, the first she had ever
known, stirred in her heart--jealousy of a tarantella.
"Maurice!" she said.
He did not hear her.
"Maurice!" she called. "Sebastiano--Gaspare--stop! You'll kill
yourselves!"
Sebastiano caught her eye, finished the tune, and took the flute from his
lips. In truth he was not sorry to be commanded to do the thing his pride
of music forbade him to do of his own will. Gaspare gave a wild, boyish
shout, and flung himself down on Giuseppe's knees, clasping him round the
neck jokingly. And Maurice--he stood still on the terrace for a moment
looking dazed. Then the hot blood surged up to his head, making it tingle
under his hair, and he came over slowly, almost shamefacedly, and sat
down by Hermione.