standing. She supposed it was the fury of a boy from whom something
is taken by one whom he cannot attack.

For God is beyond our reach.

She could not understand the conflict going on in the boy's heart and
mind.

He knew that this death was probably no natural death, but a murder.

Neither Maddalena nor her father had been in the Casa delle Sirene when
he knocked upon the door in the night. Salvatore had sent Maddalena to
spend the night with relations in Marechiaro, on the pretext that he was
going to sail to Messina on some business. And he had actually sailed
before Gaspare's arrival on the island. But Gaspare knew that there had
been a meeting, and he knew what the Sicilian is when he is wronged. The
words "vengeance is mine!" are taken in Sicily by each wronged man into
his own mouth, and Salvatore was notoriously savage and passionate.

As the first shock of horror and despair passed away from Gaspare he was
devoured, as by teeth, devoured by the desire to spring upon Salvatore
and revenge the death of his padrone. But the padrone had laid a solemn
injunction upon him. Solemn, indeed, it seemed to the boy now that the
lips which had spoken were sealed forever. The padrona was never to know.
If he obeyed his impulse, if he declared the vendetta against Salvatore,
the padrona would know. The knife that spilled the murderer's blood would
give the secret to the world--and to the padrona.

Tremendous that night was the conflict in the boy's soul. He would not
leave Hermione. He was like the dog that creeps to lie at the feet of his
sorrowing mistress. But he was more than that. For he had his own sorrow
and his own fury. And he had the battle with his own instincts.

What was he going to do?

As he began to think, really to think, and to realize things, he knew
that after such a death the authorities of Marechiaro, the Pretore and
the Cancelliere, would proceed to hold a careful examination into the
causes of death. He would be questioned. That was certain. The
opportunity would be given him to denounce Salvatore.

And was he to keep silence? Was he to act for Salvatore, to save
Salvatore from justice? He would not have minded doing that, he would
have wished to do it, if afterwards he could have sprung upon Salvatore
and buried his knife in the murderer of his padrone.

But--the padrona? She was not to know. She was never to know. And she had
been the first in his life. She had found him, a poor, ragged li