ing her pass freely, reiterating his excuses and laying all the
responsibility on the stupidity of the servant.

She stopped under the arbor, suddenly tranquillized upon finding
herself with her back to the room.

"What a den!"... she said. "Come over here, Ferragut. We shall be much
more comfortable in the open air looking at the gulf. Come, now, and
don't be babyish!... All is forgotten. You were not to blame."

The old waiter, who was returning with table-covers and dishes, did not
betray the slightest astonishment at seeing the pair installed on the
terrace. He was accustomed to these surprises and evaded the lady's eye
like a convicted criminal, looking at the gentleman with the forlorn
air which he always employed when announcing that there was no more of
some dish on the bill of fare. His gestures of quiet protection were
trying to console Ferragut for his failure. "Patience and tenacity!"...
He had seen much greater difficulties overcome by his clientele.

Before serving dinner he placed upon the table, in the guise of an
aperitive, a fat-bellied bottle of native wine, a nectar from the
slopes of Vesuvius with a slight taste of sulphur. Freya was thirsty
and was suspicious of the water of the _trattoria_. Ulysses must forget
his recent mortification.... And the two made their libations to the
gods, with an unmixed drink in which not a drop of water cut the
jeweled transparency of the precious wine.

A group of singers and dancers now invaded the terrace. A coppery-hued
girl, handsome and dirty, with wavy hair, great gold hoops in her ears
and an apron of many colored stripes, was dancing under the arbor,
waving on high a tambourine that was almost the size of a parasol. Two
bow-legged youngsters, dressed like ancient lazzarones in red caps,
were accompanying with shouts the agitated dance of the _tarantella_.

The gulf was taking on a pinkish light under the oblique rays of the
sun, as though there were growing within it immense groves of coral.
The blue of the sky had also turned rosy and the mountain seemed aflame
in the afterglow. The plume of Vesuvius was less white than in the
morning; its nebulous column, streaked with reddish flutings by the
dying light, appeared to be reflecting its interior fire.

Ulysses felt the friendly placidity that a landscape contemplated in
childhood always inspires. Many a time he had seen this same panorama
with its dancing girls and its volcano there in his old home at