to the boy's face, transforming it. The
question startled him, and he had not understood a word of the
conversation which had led up to it. What had they been talking about? He
glanced furtively at his master. Maurice did not look at him.

"Salvatore and Maddalena, signora," he answered, after a pause.

Then he took the dish and went into the house.

"What's the matter with Gaspare?" said Hermione. "I never saw him look
like that before--quite ugly. Doesn't he like these people?"

"Oh yes," replied Maurice. "Why--why, they're quite friends of ours. We
saw them at the fair only yesterday."

"Well, then, why should Gaspare look like that?"

"Oh," said Artois, who saw the discomfort of his host, "perhaps there is
some family feud that you know nothing of. When I was in Sicily I found
the people singularly subtle. They can gossip terribly, but they can keep
a secret when they choose. If I had won the real friendship of a
Sicilian, I would rather trust him with my secret than a man of any other
race. They are not only loyal--that is not enough--but they are also very
intelligent."

"Yes, they are both--the good ones," said Hermione. "I would trust
Gaspare through thick and thin. If they were only as stanch in love as
they can be in friendship!"

Gaspare came out again with another course. The ugly expression had gone
from his face, but he still looked unusually grave.

"Ah, when the senses are roused they are changed beings," Artois said.
"They hate and resent governance from outside, but their blood governs
them."

"Our blood governs us when the time comes--do you remember?"

Hermione had said the words before she remembered the circumstances in
which they had been spoken and of whom they were said. Directly she had
uttered them she remembered.

"What was that?" Maurice asked, before Artois could reply.

He had seen a suddenly conscious look in Hermione's face, and instantly
he was aware of a feeling of jealousy within him.

"What was that?" he repeated, looking quickly from one to the other.

"Something I remember saying to your wife," Artois answered. "We were
talking about human nature--a small subject, monsieur, isn't it?--and I
think I expressed the view of a fatalist. At any rate, I did say
that--that our blood governs us when the time comes."

"The time?" Maurice asked.

His feeling of jealousy died away, and was replaced by a keen personal
interest unmingled with suspicions of another.

"Well,