ut his hand on Artois's arm.

"Tell Maddalena to be silent and not to go on crying, signore," he said,
violently. "Tell her that if she does not stop crying I will come down
here in the night and kill her."

"Go, Gaspare! The Pretore is wondering--go!"

Gaspare went down over the edge of the land and disappeared towards the
sea.

"Ecco, signore!"

Salvatore reappeared from the cottage carrying a chair which he set down
under an olive-tree, the same tree by which Maddalena had stood when
Maurice first saw her in the dawn.

"Grazie."

Artois sat down. He was very tired, but he scarcely knew it. The
fisherman stood by him, looking at him with a sort of shifty expectation,
and Artois, as he noticed the hard Arab type of the man's face, the
glitter of the small, cunning eyes, the nervous alertness of the thin,
sensitive hands, understood a great deal about Salvatore. He knew Arabs
well. He had slept under their tents, had seen them in joy and in anger,
had witnessed scenes displaying fully their innate carelessness of human
life. This fisherman was almost as much Arab as Sicilian. The blend
scarcely made for gentleness. If such a man were wronged, he would be
quick and subtle in revenge. Nothing would stay him. But had Maurice
wronged him? Artois meant to assume knowledge and to act upon his
assumption. His instinct advised him that in doing so he would be doing
the best thing possible for the protection of Hermione.

"Can you make much money here?" he said, sharply yet carelessly.

The fisherman moved as if startled.

"Signore!"

"They tell me Sicily's a poor land for the poor. Isn't that so?"

Salvatore recovered himself.

"Si, signore, si, signore, one earns nothing. It is a hard life, Per
Dio!"

He stopped and stared hard at the stranger with his hands on his hips.
His eyes, his whole expression and attitude said, "What are you up to?"

"America is the country for a sharp-witted man to make his fortune in,"
said Artois, returning his gaze.

"Si, signore. Many go from here. I know many who are working in America.
But one must have money to pay the ticket."

"Yes. This terreno belongs to you?"

"Only the bit where the house stands, signore. And it is all rocks. It is
no use to any one. And in winter the winds come over it. Why, it would
take years of work to turn it into anything. And I am not a contadino.
Once I had a wine-shop, but I am a man of the sea."

"But you are a man with sharp wits. I sh