embly. The movement of the
road in the outside world by the sea had stirred the blood, had loosened
tongues and quickened spirits. But a meal in a restaurant, with a rich
English signore presiding at the head of the table, was an unaccustomed
ceremony. Dark faces that had been lit up with laughter now looked almost
ludicrously discreet. Brown hands which had been in constant activity,
talking as plainly, and more expressively, than voices, now lay limply
upon the white cloth or were placed upon knees motionless as the knees of
statues. And all eyes were turned towards the giver of the feast, mutely
demanding of him a signal of conduct to guide his inquiring guests. But
Maurice, too, felt for the moment tongue-tied. He was very sensitive to
influences, and his present position, between Maddalena and her father,
created within him a certain confusion of feelings, an odd sensation of
being between two conflicting elements. He was conscious of affection and
of enmity, both close to him, both strong, the one ready to show itself,
the other determined to remain in hiding. He glanced at Salvatore, and
met the fisherman's keen gaze. Behind the instant smile in the glittering
eyes he divined, rather than saw, the shadow of his hatred. And for a
moment he wondered. Why should Salvatore hate him? It was reasonable to
hate a man for a wrong done, even for a wrong deliberately contemplated
with intention--the intention of committing it. But he had done no real
wrong to Salvatore. Nor had he any evil intention with regard to him or
his. So far he had only brought pleasure into their lives, his life and
Maddalena's--pleasure and money. If there had been any secret pain
engendered by their mutual intercourse it was his. And this day was the
last of their intimacy, though Salvatore and Maddalena did not know it.
Suddenly a desire, an almost weak desire, came to him to banish
Salvatore's distrust of him, a distrust which he was more conscious of at
this moment than ever before.

He did not know of the muttered comments of the fishermen from Catania as
he and Maddalena passed down the steps of the church of Sant' Onofrio.
But Salvatore's sharp ears had caught them and the laughter that followed
them, and his hot blood was on fire. The words, the laughter had touched
his sensitive Sicilian pride--the pride of the man who means never to be
banished from the Piazza--as a knife touches a raw wound. And as Maurice
had set a limit to his sinning