The Call of the Blood

The naked form of Gaspare, as he waded far out in the shallow sea, was

like the form of a dream creature rising out of waves of a dream. When he

called to them across the silver surely something of the magic of the

night was caught and echoed in his voice. When he lifted the net, and its

black and dripping meshes slipped down from his ghostly hands into the

ghostly movement that was flickering about him, and the circles tipped

with light widened towards sea and shore, there was a miracle of delicate

and fantastic beauty delivered up tenderly like a marvellous gift to the

wanderers of the dark hours. But Sicily scarcely wonders at Sicily.

Gaspare was intent only on the catching of fish, and his companions smote

the night with their jokes and their merry, almost riotous laughter.

The night wore on. Presently they left Isola Bella, crossed a stony spit

of land, and came into a second and narrower bay, divided by a turmoil

of jagged rocks and a bold promontory covered with stunted olive-trees,

cactus, and seed-sown earth plots, from the wide sweep of coast that

melted into the dimness towards Messina. Gathered together on the little

stones of the beach, in the shadow of some drawn-up fishing-boats, they

took stock of the fish that lay shining in the basket, and broke their

fast on bread and cheese and more draughts from the generous wine-bottle.

Gaspare was dripping, and his thin body shook as he gulped down the wine.

"Basta Gaspare!" Maurice said to him. "You mustn't go in any more."

"No, no, signore, non basta! I can fish all night. Once the wine has

warmed me, I can--"

"But I want to try it."

"Oh, signore, what would the signora say? You are a stranger. You will

take cold, and then the signora will blame me and say I did not take

proper care of my padrone."

But Delarey was determined. He stripped off his clothes, put on his

bathing drawers, took up the net, and, carefully directed by the admiring

though protesting Gaspare, he waded into the sea.

For a moment he shuddered as the calm water rose round him. Then, English

fashion, he dipped under, with a splash that brought a roar of laughter

to him from the shore.

"Meglio così!" he cried, coming up again in the moonlight. "Adesso sto

bene!"

The plunge had made him suddenly feel tremendously young and triumphant,

reckless with a happiness that thrilled with audacity. As he waded out he

began to sing in a loud voice: "Ciao, ciao, ciao,

Morettina bella ciao,

Prima di partire

Un bacio ti voglio da'."