lla as the sun
came up, lifting its blood-red rim above the sea-line in the east. He
looked over the trees.

"Maddalena saw us!" he cried.

He had caught sight of her among the olive-trees watching them, with her
two hands held flat against her breast.

"Addio, Maddalena!"

The girl started, waved her hand, drew back, and disappeared.

"I'm glad she saw us."

Gaspare laughed, but said nothing. They put on their boots and stockings,
and started briskly off towards Monte Amato. When they had crossed the
road, and gained the winding path that led eventually into the ravine,
Maurice said:

"Well, Gaspare?"

"Well, signorino?"

"Have you forgiven me?"

"It is not for a servant to forgive his padrone, signorino," said the
boy, but rather proudly.

Maurice feared that his sense of injury was returning, and continued,
hastily:

"It was like this, Gaspare. When you and Lucrezia had gone I felt so dull
all alone, and I thought, 'every one is singing and dancing and laughing
except me.'"

"But I asked you to accompany us, signorino," Gaspare exclaimed,
reproachfully.

"Yes, I know, but--"

"But you thought we did not want you. Well, then, you do not know us!"

"Now, Gaspare, don't be angry again. Remember that the padrona has gone
away and that I depend on you for everything."

At the last words Gaspare's face, which had been lowering, brightened up
a little. But he was not yet entirely appeased.

"You have Maddalena," he said.

"She is only a girl."

"Oh, girls are very nice."

"Don't be ridiculous, Gaspare. I hardly know Maddalena."

Gaspare laughed; not rudely, but as a boy laughs who is sure he knows the
world from the outer shell to inner kernel.

"Oh, signore, why did you go down to the sea instead of coming to the
festa?"

Maurice did not answer at once. He was asking himself Gaspare's question.
Why had he gone to the Sirens' Isle? Gaspare continued:

"May I say what I think, signore? You know I am Sicilian, and I know the
Sicilians."

"What is it?"

"Strangers should be careful what they do in my country."

"Madonna! You call me a stranger?"

It was Maurice's turn to be angry. He spoke with sudden heat. The idea
that he was a stranger--a straniero--in Sicily seemed to him
ridiculous--almost offensive.

"Well, signore, you have only been here a little while. I was born here
and have never been anywhere else."

"It is true. Go on then."

"The men of Sicily are not like the Engli