e seen them."

There was a tramp of heavy boots on the stones behind them. The fishermen
from Catania were coming to see the fun. Salvatore was in glory. To get
all and give nothing was, in his opinion, to accomplish the legitimate
aim of a man's life. And his friends, those who had dared to sneer and to
whisper, and to imagine that he was selling his daughter for money, now
knew the truth and were here to witness his ingenuity. Intoxicated by his
triumph, he began to show off his power over the Inglese for the benefit
of the tramplers behind. He talked to Maurice with a loud familiarity,
kept laying his hand on Maurice's arm as they walked, and even called
him, with a half-jocose intonation, "compare." Maurice sickened at his
impertinence, but was obliged to endure it with patience, and this act of
patience brought to the birth within him a sudden, fierce longing for
revenge, a longing to pay Salvatore out for his grossness, his greed, his
sly and leering affectation of playing the slave when he was really
indicating to his compatriots that he considered himself the master.
Again Maurice heard the call of the Sicilian blood within him, but this
time it did not call him to the tarantella or to love. It called him to
strike a blow. But this blow could only be struck through Maddalena,
could only be struck if he were traitor to Hermione. For a moment he saw
everything red. Again Salvatore called him "compare." Suddenly Maurice
could not bear it.

"Don't say that!" he said. "Don't call me that!"

He had almost hissed the words out. Salvatore started, and for an
instant, as they walked side by side, the two men looked at each other
with eyes that told the truth. Then Salvatore, without asking for any
explanation of Maurice's sudden outburst, said:

"Va bene, signore, va bene! I thought for to-day we were all compares.
Scusi, scusi."

There was a bitterness of irony in his voice. As he finished he swept off
his soft hat and then replaced it more over his left ear than ever.
Maurice knew at once that he had done the unforgivable thing, that he had
stabbed a Sicilian's amour propre in the presence of witnesses of his own
blood. The fishermen from Catania had heard. He knew it from Salvatore's
manner, and an odd sensation came to him that Salvatore had passed
sentence upon him. In silence, and mechanically, he walked on to the end
of the street. He felt like one who, having done something swiftly,
thoughtlessly, is suddenl