nd of the
breakwater, old Luigione standing at the stern with the tiller between
his knees and the slack of the main-sheet in his hand. She was running
wing and wing, with her bright new sails spreading far over the water on
each side. Then came a rattle and a sharp creak as the main-yard swung
over and came down on deck, the men taking in the bellying canvas with
wide open arms and old Luigione catching the end of the yard on his
shoulder while he steered with his knees, his great gaunt profile black
against the bright sky. Down foresail, and the good felucca forges ahead
and rounds the little breakwater. Let go the anchor and she is at rest
after her long voyage. For the season has not been good and she has been
hauled on a dozen beaches before she could sell her cargo. The men are
all as brown as mahogany, and as lean as wolves, for it has been a
voyage with share and share alike for all the crew and they have starved
themselves to bring home more money to their wives.

Then there is some bustle and confusion, as Luigione brings the papers
ashore and friends crowd around the felucca in boats, asking for news
and all talking at once.

"We have been in your town, Ruggiero," said one of the men, looking down
into the little boat.

"I hope you gave a message from me to Don Pietro Casale," answered
Ruggiero.

"Health to us, Don Pietro is dead," said the man, "and his wife is not
likely to live long either."

"Dead, eh?" cried Bastianello. "He is gone to show the saints the nose
we gave him when we were boys."

"We can go back to Verbicaro when we please," observed Ruggiero with a
smile.

"Lend a hand on board, will you?" said the sailor.

So Ruggiero made the boat fast with the painter and both brothers
scrambled over the side of the felucca. They did not renew their
conversation concerning Teresina, and an hour or two later they went up
to the hotel to be in readiness for their masters, should the latter
wish to go out. Ruggiero sat down on a bench in the garden, but
Bastianello went into the house.

In the corridor outside the Marchesa's rooms he met Teresina, who
stopped and spoke to him as she always did when she met him, for though
she admired both the brothers, she liked Bastianello better than she
knew--perhaps because he talked more and seemed to have a gentler
temper.

"Good-day, Bastianello," she said, with a bright smile.

"And good-day to you, Teresina," answered Bastianello. "Can you tell me
w