ow leaving intervals through which the light poured fitfully and
fretfully upon the wrinkled waves; and ever and anon they shuddered
with electric gleams which were not actual lightning. Heaven seemed to
be descending on the sea; one might have fancied that some powerful
charms were drawing down the moon with influence malign upon those
still resisting billows. For not as yet the gulf was troubled to its
depth, and not as yet the breakers dashed in foam against the
moonlight-smitten promontories. There was but an uneasy murmuring of
wave to wave; a whispering of wind, that stooped its wing and hissed
along the surface, and withdrew into the mystery of clouds again; a
momentary chafing of churned water round the harbour piers, subsiding
into silence petulant and sullen. I leaned against an iron stanchion
and longed for the sea's message. But nothing came to me, and the
drowned secret of Shelley's death those waves which were his grave
revealed not.

Howler and scooper of storms! capricious and dainty sea!

Meanwhile the incantation swelled in shrillness, the electric shudders
deepened. Alone in this elemental overture to tempest I took no note
of time, but felt, through self-abandonment to the symphonic
influence, how sea and air, and clouds akin to both, were dealing with
each other complainingly, and in compliance to some maker of unrest
within them. A touch upon my shoulder broke this trance; I turned and
saw a boy beside me in a coastguard's uniform. Francesco was on patrol
that night; but my English accent soon assured him that I was no
_contrabbandiere_, and he too leaned against the stanchion and told me
his short story. He was in his nineteenth year, and came from
Florence, where his people live in the Borgo Ognissanti. He had all
the brightness of the Tuscan folk, a sort of innocent malice mixed
with _espieglerie_. It was diverting to see the airs he gave himself
on the strength of his new military dignity, his gun, and uniform, and
night duty on the shore. I could not help humming to myself _Non piu
andrai_; for Francesco was a sort of Tuscan Cherubino. We talked about
picture galleries and libraries in Florence, and I had to hear his
favourite passages from the Italian poets. And then there came the
plots of Jules Verne's stories and marvellous narrations about _l'
uomo cavallo, l' uomo volante, l' uomo pesce_. The last of these
personages turned out to be Paolo Boynton (so pronounced), who had
swam the Ar