am poor--very, very poor!" he added, with a sudden drop
in his voice which resembled a whine.

The Englishman threw a piece of gold into the brown, greedy palm.

"Tell it me, and be off," he said shortly.

The waiter--half Greek, half native, and a thorough rascal--bowed low,
and his beadlike eyes glistened.

"The Signor is noble. The beautiful lady's name is Signorina Adrienne
Cartuccio."

"The singer?"

"The same, Signor. The divine singer."

"Ah!"

The Englishman turned toward the wide, open window, and gazed
steadfastly at the place in the crowd where she had vanished.

"She sings to-night, does she not?" he asked.

"Truly, Signor. Palermo is full of visitors from all parts of the island
on purpose to hear her."

"At what time?"

"At nine o'clock, Signor, in the concert hall. If the Signor desires to
hear her he should go early, for to-night is the only chance. She sings
but once, and it is for the poor. They say that she has come to the
Villa Fiolesse on the hill, to be away from the world, to rest."

The Englishman descended the stairs and went slowly back to his seat. He
had only one thought. In a few hours' time he would see her again. It
would be Paradise!

He reached his table and sat down. The seat opposite to him was empty.
The Sicilian had gone.

CHAPTER III

"BETTER THOU WERT DEAD BEFORE ME"

On the brow of the Hill Fiolesse, at a sharp angle in the white dusty
road, a man and woman stood talking. On one side of them was a grove of
flowering magnolias, and on the other a high, closely-trimmed hedge
skirted the grounds of the Villa Fiolesse. There was not another soul in
sight, but, as though the place were not secure enough from
interruption, the girl, every now and then, glanced half fearfully
around her, and more than once paused in the middle of a sentence to
listen. At last her fears escaped from her lips.

"Leonardo, I wish that you had not come!" she cried. "What is the good
of it? I shall have no rest till I know that you are beyond the sea
again."

His face darkened, and his tone was gloomy and sad.

"Beyond the seas, while my heart is chained forever here, Margharita!"
he answered. "Ah! I have tried, and I know the bitterness of it. You
cannot tell what exile has been like to me. I could bear it no longer.
Tell me, child! I watched you climb this hill together. You looked back
and saw me, and waited. Did she see me, too? Quick! answer me! I will
know! She saw me