the day of the fair. He
would go to San Felice. He would stay there till the last rocket burst in
the sky over Etna, till the last song had been sung, the last toast
shouted, the last tarantella danced, the last--kiss given--the last, the
very last. He would ignore this message from Africa. He would pretend he
had never received it. He would lie about it. Yes, he would lie--but he
would have his pleasure. He was determined upon that, and nothing should
shake him, no qualms of conscience, no voices within him, no memories of
past days, no promptings of duty.

He hurried up the stony path. He did not feel the sun upon him. The sweat
poured down over his face, his body. He did not know it. His heart was
set hard, and he felt villanous, but he felt quite sure what he was going
to do, quite sure that he was going to the fair despite that letter.

When he reached the priest's house he felt exhausted. Without knowing it
he had come up the mountain at a racing pace. But he was not tired merely
because of that. He sank down in a chair in the sitting-room. Lucrezia
came and peeped at him.

"Where is Gaspare?" he asked, putting his hand instinctively over the
pocket in which were the letters.

"He is still out after the birds, signore. He has shot five already."

"Poor little wretches! And he's still out?"

"Si, signore. He has gone on to Don Peppino's terreno now. There are many
birds there. How hot you are, signorino! Shall I--"

"No, no. Nothing, Lucrezia! Leave me alone!"

She disappeared.

Then Maurice drew the letters from his pocket and slowly spread out
Hermione's in his lap. He had not read it through yet. He had only
glanced at it and seen what he had feared to see. Now he read it word by
word, very slowly and carefully. When he had come to the end he kept it
on his knee and sat for some time quite still.

In the letter Hermione asked him to go to the Hotel Regina Margherita at
Marechiaro, and engage two good rooms facing the sea for Artois, a
bedroom and a sitting-room. They were to be ready for the eleventh. She
wrote with her usual splendid frankness. Her soul was made of sincerity
as a sovereign is made of gold.

"I know"--these were her words--"I know you will try and make Emile's
coming to Sicily a little festa. Don't think I imagine you are personally
delighted at his coming, though I am sure you are delighted at his
recovery. He is my old friend, not yours, and I am not such a fool as to
suppose tha