of love.

"Hi--yi--yi--yi--yi!"

Faintly there came to them a cry across the sea.

"Gaspare!" Maurice said.

He turned his head. In the darkness, high up, he saw a light, descending,
ascending, then describing a wild circle.

"Hi--yi--yi--yi!"

"Row back, signorino! They have done playing, and my father will be
angry."

He moved, took the oars, and sent the boat towards the island. The
physical exertion calmed him, restored him to himself.

"After all," he thought, "there is no harm in it."

And he laughed.

"Which has won, Maddalena?" he said, looking back at her over his
shoulder, for he was standing up and rowing with his face towards the
land.

"I hope it is my father, signorino. If he has got the money he will not
be angry; but if Gaspare has it--"

"Your father is a fox of the sea, and can cheat better than a boy. Don't
be frightened."

When they reached the land, Salvatore and Gaspare met them. Gaspare's
face was glum, but Salvatore's small eyes were sparkling.

"I have won it all--all!" he said. "Ecco!"

And he held out his hand with the notes.

"Salvatore is birbante!" said Gaspare, sullenly. "He did not win it
fairly. I saw him--"

"Never mind, Gaspare!" said Maurice.

He put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"To-morrow I'll give you the same," he whispered.

"And now," he added, aloud, "let's go to bed. I've been rowing Maddalena
round the island and I'm tired. I shall sleep like a top."

As they went up the steep path he took Salvatore familiarly by the arm.

"You are too clever, Salvatore," he said. "You play too well for
Gaspare."

Salvatore chuckled and handled the five-lire notes voluptuously.

"Cci basu li manu!" he said. "Cci basu li manu!"

XIII

Maurice lay on the big bed in the inner room of the siren's house, under
the tiny light that burned before Maria Addolorata. The door of the house
was shut, and he heard no more the murmur of the sea. Gaspare was curled
up on the floor, on a bed made of some old sacking, with his head buried
in his jacket, which he had taken off to use as a pillow. In the far room
Maddalena and her father were asleep. Maurice could hear their breathing,
Maddalena's light and faint, Salvatore's heavy and whistling, and
degenerating now and then into a sort of stifled snore. But sleep did not
come to Maurice. His eyes were open, and his clasped hands supported his
head. He was thinking, thinking almost angrily.

He loved joy as few Engli