force me back
on the pillows--they overcome me, and the utter incapacity of a
terrible exhaustion steals away my strength. I cease to struggle.
Pietro and his assistant look down upon me.

"E morto!" they whisper one to the other.

I hear them and smile. Dead? Not I! The scorching sunlight streams
through the open door of the inn--the thirsty flies buzz with
persistent loudness--some voices are singing "La Fata di Amalfi"--I can
distinguish the words--

"Chiagnaro la mia sventura
Si non tuorne chiu, Rosella!
Tu d' Amalfi la chiu bella,
Tu na Fata si pe me!
Viene, vie, regina mie,
Viene curre a chisto core,
Ca non c'e non c'e sciore,
Non c'e Stella comm'a te!"
[Footnote: A popular song in the Neapolitan dialect.]

That is a true song, Nina mia! "Non c'e Stella comm' a te!" What did
Guido say? "Purer than the flawless diamond--unapproachable as the
furthest star!" That foolish Pietro still polishes his wine-bottles. I
see him--his meek round face is greasy with heat and dust; but I cannot
understand how he comes to be here at all, for I am on the banks of a
tropical river where huge palms grow wild, and drowsy alligators lie
asleep in the sun. Their large jaws are open--their small eyes glitter
greenly. A light boat glides over the silent water--in it I behold the
erect lithe figure of an Indian. His features are strangely similar to
those of Guido. He draws a long thin shining blade of steel as he
approaches. Brave fellow!--he means to attack single-handed the cruel
creatures who lie in wait for him on the sultry shore. He springs to
land--I watch him with a weird fascination. He passes the
alligators--he seems not to be aware of their presence--he comes with
swift, unhesitating step to ME--it is I whom he seeks--it is in MY
heart that he plunges the cold steel dagger, and draws it out again
dripping with blood! Once--twice--thrice!--and yet I cannot die! I
writhe--I moan in bitter anguish! Then something dark comes between me
and the glaring sun--something cool and shadowy, against which I fling
myself despairingly. Two dark eyes look steadily into mine, and a voice
speaks:

"Be calm, my son, be calm. Commend thyself to Christ!"

It is my friend the monk. I recognize him gladly. He has returned from
his errand of mercy. Though I can scarcely speak, I hear myself asking
for news of the boy. The holy man crosses himself devoutly.

"May his young soul rest in peace! I found