Night had come to the Sirens' Isle--a night that was warm, gentle, and
caressing. In the cottage two candles were lit, and the wick was burning
in the glass before the Madonna. Outside the cottage door, on the flat
bit of ground that faced the wide sea, Salvatore and his daughter,
Maurice and Gaspare, were seated round the table finishing their simple
meal, for which Salvatore had many times apologized. Their merry voices,
their hearty laughter rang out in the darkness, and below the sea made
answer, murmuring against the rocks.
At the same moment in an Arab house Hermione bent over a sick man,
praying against death, whose footsteps she seemed already to hear coming
into the room and approaching the bed on which he tossed, white with
agony. And when he was quiet for a little and ceased from moving, she sat
with her hand on his and thought of Sicily, and pictured her husband
alone under the stars upon the terrace before the priest's house, and
imagined him thinking of her. The dry leaves of a palm-tree under the
window of the room creaked in the light wind that blew over the flats,
and she strove to hear the delicate rustling of the leaves of
olive-trees.
Salvatore had little food to offer his guests, only bread, cheese, and
small, black olives; but there was plenty of good red wine, and when the
time of brindisi was come Salvatore and Gaspare called for health after
health, and rivalled each other in wild poetic efforts, improvising
extravagant compliments to Maurice, to the absent signora, to Maddalena,
and even to themselves. And with each toast the wine went down till
Maurice called a halt.
"I am a real Sicilian," he said. "But if I drink any more I shall be
under the table. Get out the cards, Salvatore. Sette e mezzo, and I'll
put down the stakes. No one to go above twenty-five centesimi, with fifty
for the doubling. Gaspare's sure to win. He always does. And I've just
one cigar apiece. There's no wind. Bring out the candles and let's play
out here."
Gaspare ran for the candles while Salvatore got the cards, well-thumbed
and dirty. Maddalena's long eyes were dancing. Such a festa as this was
rare in her life, for, dwelling far from the village, she seldom went to
any dance or festivity. Her blood was warm with the wine and with joy,
and the youth in her seemed to flow like the sea in a flood-tide.
Scarcely ever before had she seen her harsh father so riotously gay, so
easy with a stranger, and she knew in her heart that this was her
festival. Maurice's merry and ardent eyes told her that, and Gaspare's
smiling glances of boyish understanding. She felt excited, almost
light-headed, childishly proud of herself. If only some of the girls of
Marechiaro could see, could know!