will never forgive; I swear it!"

He ceased and bent forward, as though for her answer. She did not speak.
The deep silence was broken only by the far-off murmur of the sea, and
the sound of faint sobbing from between her clasped hands. The sound of
her distress softened him for a moment; he hesitated, and then spoke
again more quietly.

"Margharita, ponder this over. Be brave, and remember that you are a
Marioni. Till to-morrow, farewell!"

CHAPTER IV

"DOWN INTO HELL TO WIN THE LOVE HE SOUGHT"

It was two hours later, and the Marina was almost deserted. The streets
and squares, too, of the southern city were silent and empty. It seemed
as though all Palermo had gathered together in that sprawling,
whitewashed building, called in courtesy a concert hall. Flashes of
light from its many windows gleamed upon the pavements below, and from
the upper one the heads of a solid phalanx of men and women, wedged in
together, threw quaint shadows across the narrow street. The
tradespeople, aristocracy, and visitors of the place had flocked
together to the concert, frantically desirous of hearing the great
singer who although so young, had been made welcome at every court in
Europe. It was an honor to their island city that she should have
visited it at all; much more that she should choose to sing there; and
the quick Palermitans, fired with enthusiasm, rushed to welcome her. The
heavy slumberous air was still vibrating with the shout which had
greeted her first appearance, and the echoes from across the scarcely
rippled surface of the bay were lingering among the rocky hills on the
other side of the harbor.

The Sicilian heard it as he threaded his way toward the poorer part of
the city, and a dull red glow burned for a moment in his sallow cheeks.
It maddened him that he, too, was not there to join in it, to feast his
eyes upon her, and listen to the matchless music of her voice. Was she
not more to him than to any of them? So long he had carried her image in
his heart that a curious sense of possession had crept into all his
thoughts of her. He was frantically jealous, heedless of the fact that
he had no right to be. He would have felt toward the man on whom
Adrienne Cartuccio had smiled, as toward a robber. She was his, and his
only she should be. Years of faithful homage and unabated longing had
made her so. His was a narrow but a strong nature, and the desire of her
had become the mainspring of his life. His s