nected it with strange superstitions, with
gifts, with deprivations, with death. Familiar and mysterious it was
purely to them as to all seamen, like a woman possessed whose soul is
far away.

Just as the clocks of Posilipo were striking eight the Marchesino
steered the boat into the quay of the Antico Guiseppone.

Although it was early in the season a few deal tables were set out by
the waterside, and a swarthy waiter, with huge mustaches and a napkin
over his arm, came delicately over the stones to ask their wishes.

"Will you let me order dinner, Emilio?" said the Marchesino: "I know
what they do best here."

Artois agreed, and while the waiter shuffled to carry out the
Marchesino's directions the two friends strolled near the edge of the
sea.

The breeze had been kindly. Having served them well it was now
dying down to its repose, leaving the evening that was near to night
profoundly calm. As Artois walked along the quay he felt the approach of
calm like the approach of a potentate, serene in the vast consciousness
of power. Peace was invading the sea, irresistible peace. The night was
at hand. Already Naples uncoiled its chain of lamps along the Bay. In
the gardens of Posilipo the lights of the houses gleamed. Opposite,
but very far off across the sea, shone the tiny flames of the houses
of Portici, of Torre del Greco, of Torre Annunziata, of Castellamare.
Against the gathering darkness Vesuvius belched slowly soft clouds of
rose-colored vapor, which went up like a menace into the dim vault of
the sky. The sea was without waves. The boats by the wharf, where
the road ascends past the villa Rosebery to the village of Posilipo,
scarcely moved. Near them, in a group, lounging against the wall and
talking rapidly, stood the two sailors from Naples with the boatmen
of the Guiseppone. Oil lamps glimmered upon two or three of the deal
tables, round one of which was gathered a party consisting of seven
large women, three children, and two very thin middle-aged men with
bright eyes, all of whom were eating oysters. Farther on, from a small
arbor that gave access to a fisherman's house, which seemed to be
constructed partially in a cave of the rock, and which was gained by a
steep and crumbling stairway of stone, a mother called shrilly to some
half-naked little boys who were fishing with tiny hand-nets in the
sea. By the table which was destined to the Marchesino and Artois three
ambulant musicians were hovering, hold