The Call of the Blood - Page 112/317

There was no one on the terrace. But there was a figure for a moment on

the mountain-side, leaping downward. The ravine took it and hid it in a

dark embrace. Gaspare had found what he sought, a clew to guide him. His

hesitation was gone. In his uneducated and intuitive mind there was no

longer any room for a doubt. He knew that his padrone was where he had

been in that other dawn, when he slipped away from the cave where his

companions were sleeping.

Surefooted as a goat, and incited to abnormal activity by a driving

spirit within him that throbbed with closely mingled curiosity, jealousy,

and anger, Gaspare made short work of the path in the ravine. In a few

minutes he came out on to the road by Isola Bella. On the shore was a

group of fishermen, all of them friends of his, getting ready their

fishing-tackle, and hauling down the boats to the gray sea for the

morning's work. Some of them hailed him, but he took no notice, only

pulled his soft hat down sideways over his cheek, and hurried on in the

direction of Messina, keeping to the left side of the road and away from

the shore, till he gained the summit of the hill from which the Caffè

Berardi and the caves were visible. There he stopped for a moment and

looked down. He saw no one upon the shore, but at some distance upon the

sea there was a black dot, a fishing-boat. It was stationary. Gaspare

knew that its occupant must be hauling in his net.

"Salvatore is out then!" he muttered to himself, as he turned aside from

the road onto the promontory, which was connected by the black wall of

rock with the land where stood the house of the sirens. This wall,

forbidding though it was, and descending sheer into the deep sea on

either side, had no terrors for him. He dropped down to it with a sort of

skilful carelessness, then squatted on a stone, and quickly unlaced his

mountain boots, pulled his stockings off, slung them with the boots round

his neck, and stood up on his bare feet. Then, balancing himself with his

out-stretched arms, he stepped boldly upon the wall. It was very narrow.

The sea surged through it. There was not space on it to walk

straight-footed, even with only one foot at a time upon the rock. Gaspare

was obliged to plant his feet sideways, the toes and heels pointing to

the sea on either hand. But the length of the wall was short, and he went

across it almost as quickly as if he had been walking upon the road.

Heights and depths had no terrors for him in his confident youth. And he

had been bred up among the rocks, and was a familiar friend of the sea. A

drop into it would have only meant a morning bath. Having gained the

farther side, he put on his stockings and boots, grasped his stick, and

began to climb upward through the thickly growing trees towards the house

of the sirens. His instinct had told him upon the terrace that the

padrone was there. Uneducated people have often marvellously retentive

memories for the things of every-day life. Gaspare remembered the

padrone's question about the little light beside the sea, his answer to

it, the way in which the padrone had looked towards the trees when, in

the dawn, they stood upon the summit of the hill and he pointed out the

caves where they were going to sleep. He remembered, too, from what

direction the padrone came towards the caffè when the sun was up--and he

knew.