the best means of
warding them off, the "guaj di lu linu," the interpretation of dreams,
the power of the Mafia, the legends of the brigands, and the vanished
glory of Musolino. Gaspare talked without reserve to his padrone, as to
another Sicilian, and Maurice was never weary of listening. All that was
of Sicily caught his mind and heart, was full of meaning to him, and of
irresistible fascination. He had heard the call of the blood once for all
and had once for all responded to it.

But the nights he had loved best. For then he slept under the stars. When
ten o'clock struck he and Gaspare carried out one of the white beds onto
the terrace, and he slipped into it and lay looking up at the clear sky,
and at the dimness of the mountain flank, and at the still silhouettes of
the trees, till sleep took him, while Gaspare, rolled up in a rug of many
colors, snuggled up on the seat by the wall with his head on a cushion
brought for him by the respectful Lucrezia. And they awoke at dawn to see
the last star fade above the cone of Etna, and the first spears of the
sun thrust up out of the stillness of the sea.

"Signorino, ecco la posta!"

And Gaspare came running down from the terrace, the wide brim of his
white linen hat flapping round his sun-browned face.

"I don't want it, Gaspare. I don't want anything."

"But I think there's a letter from the signora!"

"From Africa?"

Maurice sat up and held out his hand.

"Yes, it is from Kairouan. Sit down, Gaspare, and I'll tell you what the
padrona says."

Gaspare squatted on his haunches like an Oriental, not touching the
ground with his body, and looked eagerly at the letter that had come
across the sea. He adored his padrona, and was longing for news of her.
Already he had begun to send her picture post-cards, laboriously written
over. "Tanti saluti carissima Signora Pertruni, a rividici, e suno il suo
servo fidelisimo per sempre--Martucci Gaspare. Adio! Adio! Ciao! Ciao!"
What would she say? And what message would she send to him? His eyes
sparkled with affectionate expectation.

"HOTEL DE FRANCE, KAIROUAN.

MY DEAREST,--I cannot write very much, for all my moments ought to
be given up to nursing Emile. Thank God, I arrived in time. Oh,
Maurice, when I saw him I can't tell you how thankful I was that I
had not hesitated to make the journey, that I had acted at once on
my first impulse to come here. And h