g down the boats to the gray sea for the
morning's work. Some of them hailed him, but he took no notice, only
pulled his soft hat down sideways over his cheek, and hurried on in the
direction of Messina, keeping to the left side of the road and away from
the shore, till he gained the summit of the hill from which the Caffe
Berardi and the caves were visible. There he stopped for a moment and
looked down. He saw no one upon the shore, but at some distance upon the
sea there was a black dot, a fishing-boat. It was stationary. Gaspare
knew that its occupant must be hauling in his net.

"Salvatore is out then!" he muttered to himself, as he turned aside from
the road onto the promontory, which was connected by the black wall of
rock with the land where stood the house of the sirens. This wall,
forbidding though it was, and descending sheer into the deep sea on
either side, had no terrors for him. He dropped down to it with a sort of
skilful carelessness, then squatted on a stone, and quickly unlaced his
mountain boots, pulled his stockings off, slung them with the boots round
his neck, and stood up on his bare feet. Then, balancing himself with his
out-stretched arms, he stepped boldly upon the wall. It was very narrow.
The sea surged through it. There was not space on it to walk
straight-footed, even with only one foot at a time upon the rock. Gaspare
was obliged to plant his feet sideways, the toes and heels pointing to
the sea on either hand. But the length of the wall was short, and he went
across it almost as quickly as if he had been walking upon the road.
Heights and depths had no terrors for him in his confident youth. And he
had been bred up among the rocks, and was a familiar friend of the sea. A
drop into it would have only meant a morning bath. Having gained the
farther side, he put on his stockings and boots, grasped his stick, and
began to climb upward through the thickly growing trees towards the house
of the sirens. His instinct had told him upon the terrace that the
padrone was there. Uneducated people have often marvellously retentive
memories for the things of every-day life. Gaspare remembered the
padrone's question about the little light beside the sea, his answer to
it, the way in which the padrone had looked towards the trees when, in
the dawn, they stood upon the summit of the hill and he pointed out the
caves where they were going to sleep. He remembered, too, from what
direction the padrone came tow