dowry as a guarantee of her fidelity. But if he fails to enrich
himself, or if she is unfaithful to him, he never comes back at all. It
is thus clear that a penniless young man cannot go to America until he
is married.

"That is very true," Ruggiero repeated.

"And we must eat," said Sebastiano, who knew by experience the truth of
what he said.

"And we are always hungry. It is very strange. I am hungry now, and yet
we had the beans only this morning. It is true that the plate was not
full, and there were two of us. I wish we were like the son of Antonio,
who never eats. I heard his mother telling the chemist so last winter."

"He is dead," said Sebastiano. "Health to us!" he added, according to
custom.

"Health to us!" repeated Euggiero. "Perhaps he died because he did not
eat. Who knows? I should, I am sure. Is he dead? I did not know. Come
along! If Don Antonino is not away we shall get some bread."

So they trudged on through the sand. It was still very hot on the
yellowish white beach, under the great southern sun in September, but
the Children of the King had been used to bearing worse hardships than
heat, or cold either, and the thought of the big brown loaves in Don
Antonino's wine-shop was very cheering.

At last they reached the foot of the terraced village that rises with
its tiers of white and brown houses from the shore to the top of the
hill. Not so big nor so prosperous a place as Verbicaro, but much bigger
and richer than Diamante. There are always a good many fishing boats
hauled up on the beach, but you will not often see a cargo boat
excepting in the autumn. Don Antonino keeps the cook-shop and the wine
cellar in the little house facing the sea, before you turn to the right
to go up into the village. He is an old sailor and an honest fellow, and
comes from Massa, which is near Sorrento.

A vast old man he is, with keen, quiet grey eyes under heavy lids that
droop and slant outward like the lifts of a yard. He is thickset, heavy,
bulky in the girth, flat-footed, iron-handed, slow to move. He has a
white beard like a friar, and wears a worsted cap. His skin, having lost
at last the tan of thirty years, is like the rough side of light brown
sole leather--a sort of yellowish, grey, dead-leaf colour. He is very
deaf and therefore generally very silent. He has been boatswain on board
of many a good ship and there are few ports from Batum to San Francisco
where he has not cast anchor.

The boys s