The Call of the Blood

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.