-the secret soul of him--did
not shrink from them in any surprise. To something in him, some part of
him, they came as things not unfamiliar.

Suppose he had shown surprise at Hermione's project? Suppose he had asked
her not to go? Suppose he had told her not to go? What would she have
said? What would she have done? He had never thought of objecting to this
journey, but he might have objected. Many a man would have objected. This
was their honeymoon--hers and his. To many it would seem strange that a
wife should leave her husband during their honeymoon, to travel across
the sea to another man, a friend, even if he were ill, perhaps dying. He
did not doubt Hermione. No one who knew her as he did could doubt her,
yet nevertheless, now that he was quite companionless in the night, he
felt deserted, he felt as if every one else were linked with life, while
he stood entirely alone. Hermione was travelling to her friend. Lucrezia
and Gaspare had gone to their festa, to dance, to sing, to joke, to make
merry, to make love--who knew? Down in the village the people were
gossiping at one another's doors, were lounging together in the piazza,
were playing cards in the caffes, were singing and striking the guitars
under the pepper-trees bathed in the rays of the moon. And he--what was
there for him in this night that woke up desires for joy, for the
sweetness of the life that sings in the passionate aisles of the south?

He stood still by the wall. Two or three lights twinkled on the height
where Castel Vecchio perched clinging to its rock above the sea.
Sebastiano was there setting his lips to the ceramella, and shooting bold
glances of tyrannical love at Lucrezia out of his audacious eyes. The
peasants, dressed in their gala clothes, were forming in a circle for the
country dance. The master of the ceremonies was shouting out his commands
in bastard French: "Tournez!" "A votre place!" "Prenez la donne!" "Dansez
toutes!" Eyes were sparkling, cheeks were flushing, lips were parting as
gay activity created warmth in bodies and hearts. Then would come the
tarantella, with Gaspare spinning like a top and tripping like a Folly in
a veritable madness of movement. And as the night wore on the dance would
become wilder, the laughter louder, the fire of jokes more fierce.
Healths would be drunk with clinking glasses, brindisi shouted, tricks
played. Cards would be got out. There would be a group intent on "Scopa,"
another calling "Mi stai