dy with one hand, and then took it up in a
second part, and then a third, that made strange minor harmonies.

"I never heard that," Cecilia said, as he looked at her. "I like it. It
must be very ancient. Play it again."

By way of answer, he began to sing the old song, accompanying himself
with the same old harmonies. He had no particular voice, and it was more
like humming than singing, so far as the tone was concerned, but he
pronounced every word distinctly, and imitated the peculiar intonation
of the southern people to perfection.

"Do you understand?" he asked, when he came to the end.

"Not a word." Cecilia asked, "Is it Arabic? It sounds like it."

"No. It is our own beloved Italian," laughed Lamberti, "only it is the
Sicilian dialect. If that sort of thing amuses you, I can go on for
hours."

Many Italians have the facility he possessed, and the good memory for
both words and music, and he had unconsciously developed what talent he
had, in places where time was long and there was nothing to do. He
changed the key and hummed a little Arab melody from the desert.

Cecilia sat quite still and watched the outline of his head against the
light. It was an energetic head, but the face was not a cruel one, and
this evening she had not seen what she called the ruthless look in his
eyes. She was not at all afraid of him now, nor would she have been even
if they had been quite alone in the room. She almost wished to tell him
so, and then smiled at the thought.

So this was the reality of the vision that had haunted her dreams and
had caused her such unutterable suffering until she had found strength
to break the habit of her imagination. The reality was not at all
terrible. She could imagine the man roused to action, fighting for his
life, single-handed against many, as she had been told that he had
fought. He looked both brave and strong. But she could not imagine that
she should ever have cause to be afraid of him again. There he sat,
beside her, humming snatches of songs he remembered from his many
voyages, his hands moving not at all gracefully over the keys; he was
evidently a very simple and good-natured man, willing to do anything
that could amuse her, without the slightest affectation. He was just the
kind of friend for Guido, and it was her duty to like Guido's friend. It
would not be hard, now that she had got out of the labyrinth of absurd
illusions that had made it impossible. She resolutely put aside t