of a
mysterious illness, which he did not bear well. He was in a constant
state of irritation. He had not long to live. That was apparent from
unmistakable signs--the look of pity in the woman's eyes mingled with
discreetly veiled alarm, and an oppressive atmosphere of mourning.

. . . . .

With a physical effort he began to speak so as to break the silence.
As he was sitting between me and the open window, some of the things he
said were lost in the air.

He spoke of his travels, and, I think, also of his marriage, but I did
not hear well.

He became animated, and his voice rose painfully. He quivered. A
restrained passion enlivened his gestures and glances and warmed his
language. You could tell that he must have been an active brilliant
man before his illness.

He turned his head a little and I could hear him better.

He told of the cities and countries that he had visited. It was like
an invocation to sacred names, to far-off different skies, Italy,
Egypt, India. He had come to this room to rest, between two stations,
and he was resting uneasily, like an escaped convict. He said he would
have to leave again, and his eyes sparkled. He spoke of what he still
wanted to see. But the twilight deepened, the warmth left the air, and
all he thought of now was what he had seen in the past.

"Think of everything we have seen, of all the space we bring with us."

They gave the impression of a group of travellers, never in repose,
forever in flight, arrested for a moment in their insatiable course, in
a corner of the world which you felt was made small by their presence.

. . . . .

"Palermo--Sicily."

Not daring to advance into the future, he intoxicated himself with
these recollections. I saw the effort he was making to draw near to
some luminous point in the days gone by.

"Carpi, Carpi," he cried. "Anna, do you remember that wonderful
brilliant morning? The ferryman and his wife were at table in the open
air. What a glow over the whole country! The table, round and pale
like a star. The stream sparkling. The banks bordered with oleander
and tamarisk. The sun made a flower of every leaf. The grass shone as
if it were full of dew. The shrubs seemed bejewelled. The breeze was
so faint that it was a smile, not a sigh."

She listened to him, placid, deep, and limpid as a mirror.

"The whole of the ferryman's family," he continued, "was not there.
The young daughter was dreaming on a rustic