f me too far. You must
go, indeed."

"I will go."

A shadow that he tried to keep back flitted across Artois's pale face,
over which the unkempt beard straggled in a way that would have appalled
his Parisian barber. Hermione saw it.

"I will go," she repeated, quietly, "when I can take you with me."

"But--"

"Hush! You are not to argue. Haven't you an utter contempt for those who
do things by halves? Well, I have. When you can travel we'll go
together."

"Where?"

"To Sicily. It will be hot there, but after this it will seem cool as the
Garden of Eden under those trees where--but you remember! And there is
always the breeze from the sea. And then from there, very soon, you can
get a ship from Messina and go back to France, to Marseilles. Don't talk,
Emile. I am writing to-night to tell Maurice."

And she left the room with quick softness.

Artois did not protest. He told himself that he had not the strength to
struggle against the tenderness that surrounded him, that made it sweet
to return to life. But he wondered silently how Maurice would receive
him, how the dancing faun was bearing, would bear, this interference with
his new happiness.

"When I am in Sicily I shall see at once, I shall know," he thought. "But
till then--"

And he gave up the faint attempt to analyze the possible feelings of
another, and sank again into the curious peace of convalescence.

And Hermione wrote to her husband, telling him of her plan, calling upon
him with the fearless enthusiasm that was characteristic of her to
welcome it and to rejoice, with her, in Artois's returning health and
speedy presence in Sicily.

Maurice read this letter on the terrace alone. Gaspare had gone down on
the donkey to Marechiaro to buy a bottle of Marsala, which Lucrezia
demanded for the making of a zampaglione, and Lucrezia was upon the
mountain-side spreading linen to dry in the sun. It was nearly the end of
May now, and the trees in the ravine were thick with all their leaves.
The stream that ran down through the shadows towards the sea was a tiny
trickle of water, and the long, black snakes were coming boldly forth
from their winter hiding-places to sun themselves among the bowlders that
skirted the mountain tracks.

"I can't tell for certain," Hermione wrote, "how soon we shall arrive,
but Emile is picking up strength every day, and I think, I pray, it may
not be long. I dare to hope that we shall be with you about the second
week of