tois, generated within him
by such thoughts as these, thoughts that detained him from work, still
glowed in his heart when evening fell and the Marchesino came gayly in
to take him out upon the sea.

"There's a little wind, Emilio," he said, as they got into the boat in
the harbor of Santa Lucia; "we can sail to the Antico Giuseppone. And
after dinner we'll fish for sarde. Isn't it warm? One could sleep out on
such a night."

They had two men with them. When they got beyond the breakwater the sail
was set, the Marchesino took the helm, and the boat slipped through the
smooth sea, rounded the rocks on which the old fort stands to stare at
Capri, radiant now as a magic isle in the curiously ethereal light of
evening, and headed for the distant point of land which hid Ischia
from their eyes. The freedom of the Bay of Naples was granted them--the
freedom of the sea. As they ran out into the open water, and Artois saw
the round gray eyes of the Marchesino dancing to the merry music of a
complete bodily pleasure, he felt like a man escaping. He looked back
at the city almost as at a sad life over, and despite his deep and
persistent interest in men he understood the joy of the hermit who casts
them from him and escapes into the wilds. The radiance of the Bay, one
of the most radiant of all the inlets of the sea, bold and glaring
in the brilliant daytime, becomes exquisitely delicate towards night.
Vesuvius, its fiery watcher, looks like a kindly guardian, until perhaps
the darkness shows the flame upon its flanks, the flame bursting forth
from the mouth it opens to the sky; and the coast-line by Sorrento, the
lifted crest of Capri, even the hill of Posilipo, appear romantic and
enticing, calling lands holding wonderful pleasures for men, joys
in their rocks and trees, joys in their dim recesses, joys and soft
realities fulfilling every dream upon their coasts washed by the
whispering waves.

The eyes of the Marchesino were dancing with physical pleasure. Artois
wondered how much he felt the beauty of the evening, and how. His friend
evidently saw the question in his eyes, for he said:

"The man who knows not Naples knows not pleasure."

"Is that a Neapolitan saying?" asked Artois.

"Yes, and it is true. There is no town like Naples for pleasure.
Even your Paris, Emilio, with all its theatres, its cocottes, its
restaurants--no, it is not Naples. No wonder the forestiere come here.
In Naples they are free. They can do wh