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 THE ISLE OF LIFE

 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 A ROMANCE 
 
 BY 
 STEPHEN FRENCH WHITMAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF "PREDESTINED" 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 NEW YORK : : : : : 1913
 
 ^0 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published March, 1913
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE
 
 RAHGl.
 
 LOAN UI5RARY 
 
 (.Of; A Nap 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SEBASTIAN MAURE awoke to great lethargy of 
 brain and body. His eyeballs burned. His skin 
 felt dry and shrivelled. His throat was parched, and 
 irritated by countless cigarettes. He began to cough, 
 weakly, yet with sufficient force to make his head feel 
 as if it were going to explode. Repressing a groan, 
 he rolled over on his back, gazed at the ceiling, and 
 tried to remember where he was. 
 
 The previous evening, on reaching Rome, he had 
 alighted at the Grand Hotel, bathed, changed into 
 evening dress, and set out for the Corso. There, hi 
 front of Aragno's Cafe, he had been welcomed back 
 by Marchese Tito di Torredidone, a young Sicilian 
 officer of the Genoa Cavalry, and by Andreas Ro- 
 manovitch Tchernaieff, an attache of the Russian 
 Embassy. With these two he had gone upstairs to 
 the Hunt Club. They had dined there. Afterward, 
 they had played interminable card-games in the 
 outer room. Later, they had certainly met some 
 actresses or opera-singers for supper perhaps in the 
 Regina Restaurant. . . . 
 
 His memory exhausted at this point, he began to 
 inspect his present surroundings, which he was not 
 conscious of having seen before.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 
 The room, its ceiling unusually high, was furnished 
 in jonquil-yellow and mahogany. Everything was 
 expensive-looking, ultra-modern, chic. 
 
 Whose room could it be? No doubt jt was the 
 owner's sleeping-suit that he was wearing, a suit of 
 rose-colored silk so tight for him that the buttons, 
 and half the seams as well, had given way. 
 
 Abruptly, despite the acute discomfort of exertion, 
 he got up and approached the door. On the way, he 
 paused before a mirror to look at his reflection. 
 
 He saw a tall, heavy, black-haired man apparently 
 more than forty. The swarthy face, formerly quite 
 handsome, now rather damaged by excesses, still bore 
 that stamp of "race" which bodily debasement never 
 really obliterates. But this countenance, in spite of 
 its material degeneracy, was calm, strong, and even 
 formidable. Those were the lineaments of an indi- 
 vidual whose physical impairment was certainly not 
 due to weakness of the will. It was a visage sar- 
 donically intelligent, unillumined by conscience, yet 
 filled with the self-sufficiency of one who expects and 
 asks nothing, of this world or the next. 
 
 When he had found himself hardly in worse shape 
 than usual, Sebastian Maure entered the adjoining 
 room. 
 
 This apartment was a study, luxuriously furnished. 
 Bookcases lined the walls. A variety of precious 
 bric-a-brac was strewn about. Before a stone fire- 
 place, on a scarlet-leather couch, a man was sleeping 
 under a fur-lined overcoat. He was small, thin, and 
 pale, with a bald forehead, a snub nose, and a forked
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 3 
 
 beard of brownish-red. As Sebastian Maure set 
 foot across the door-sill, with one jerk this person sat 
 erect, staring wildly. Then, reassured, he dropped 
 back with a hysterical laugh. It was Andreas Ro- 
 manovitch, the Russian, who exclaimed, in fluent 
 English : 
 
 " Do you mind handing me a cigarette? The silver 
 box on the desk is full of them. Brandy in the tan- 
 talus-case, under the Venus Anadyomene. Or if you 
 prefer an absinthe frappe, ring the bell. Ring it any- 
 way. I want one myself." 
 
 "So I came home and put you out of your bed?'' 
 
 "Bah! I was tired sleeping in it. Sometimes, 
 when I come in, I am bored horribly at the thought 
 of lying there again. The other night I slept in a 
 taxicab running back and forth between Rome and 
 Hadrian's Villa. I hate repetition. That's what we 
 have to fight in life repetition, satiety, ennui. But, 
 alas, it gets us in the end, when we've tried every- 
 thing, and tired of it." 
 
 "How old are you, Andreas?" 
 
 " Thirty-two. And you? " 
 
 "Thirty-six." 
 
 "Really? Then we both look ten years older 
 than we are. Especially this morning." 
 
 An elderly man-servant entered, a bowl of ice in 
 hand. Without orders, he began to mix two drinks. 
 Andreas, enlivened by the rattle of the silver shaker, 
 jumped up to pace the floor. Mauve silk pajamas 
 flapped round his slight and bony frame. 
 
 "What time is it?" he inquired of the servant.
 
 4 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Two, Excellency." 
 
 "Je mehr desto besser the later the better! For- 
 tunately for Russia, this is Sunday. In an Embassy, 
 Sebastian, one doesn't work on Sunday. I tell you 
 that because you know nothing, yourself, about the 
 processes of honest labor. It's true that from time 
 to time you set up to be a writer of poisonous ro- 
 mances. Probably you might even be a man of 
 letters in earnest, if you were poor, and the inhabi- 
 tant of an island without ladies, gambling-tables, or 
 boats, and where the fruits were incapable of fer- 
 mentation. As it is, you command too many ex- 
 quisitely decorated distractions. Pardon my Ger- 
 man, but this animal of a valet has the impudence 
 to understand both French and English." 
 
 "And a little German, too, Excellency," vouch- 
 safed the servant, in respectful tones, while going 
 out. 
 
 Andreas Romanovitch drank his absinthe imper- 
 turbably, then continued: 
 
 "We must send him to the Grand for some of your 
 clothes." 
 
 "My man is there." 
 
 "Ah, of course. Still the Greek? If I recall that 
 face, he'll end by knifing you some day, when your 
 wallet's extra fat. By the way, about how much 
 did you have in it last night? You lost two thou- 
 sand lire at ecarte, and took Tito's I. O. U. for fifteen 
 hundred. The supper was two hundred lire: I owe 
 you half. You gave up your signet-ring to the 
 blonde soprano from the Costanzi, the almost incom-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 5 
 
 parable Fiammetta. If it's a relic, I'll get it back 
 for you she happens at the moment to be fond of 
 me. Why, say I, when I look at myself in broad 
 daylight, God only knows ! Are you aware that you 
 made me violently jealous at supper? You told her 
 she was the reincarnation of Poppaea Sabina. You 
 wanted to take her immediately to Florence, and 
 compare her to the bust in the Uffizzi." 
 
 "How do you remember all this?" 
 
 "I sipped a mild sauterne punch. You poured 
 down a mixture of absinthe, anisette, and brandy. I 
 was no more than gay. But you were quite terrible, 
 with your white, gloomy face brooding over the 
 table, illuminated now and then by some wild 
 thought as if by a flash of lightning. You reminded 
 me of a daimonic Beethoven, dreaming, on the edge 
 of the bottomless pit, of awful symphonies. Do you 
 mind my asking if you really enjoyed yourself? " 
 
 "If I don't enjoy doing a thing, I'm not apt to do 
 it." 
 
 " Well, every one to his little mannerisms. For my 
 part, I always sing naughty chansonnettes, and want 
 to kiss somebody. I'll match you for first chance at 
 the tub." 
 
 "After you. And see how many minutes you can 
 keep your head under water." 
 
 Andreas Romanovitch clacked his tongue, shed his 
 mauve pajamas, and skipped into the bath-room. 
 
 When finally he emerged, teeth chattering, he in- 
 quired: 
 
 " May one ask how long you propose to grace our 
 flattered circles?"
 
 6 THE JSLE OF LIFE 
 
 "That depends. How is Rome, this season?" 
 
 "Not bad, in our set. Every one is entertaining 
 conscientiously. Also, the hotels are full of pretty 
 foreigners the moths round the flame ! I make an 
 exception. Do you know a Miss Bellamy, a com- 
 patriot of yours, if a chronic expatriate may be said 
 to have them? A great heiress. And more. One 
 of your uncrowned American princesses. She re- 
 mains one even here, in Rome, parbleu! and I doubt, 
 despite the cynics, if there's a more inexorable ma- 
 chinery in all Europe for testing blood. Her money, 
 of course, would set her right at once with our cos- 
 mopolitan crowd; but she has quite as many friends 
 in the Holy of Holies. And beautiful? Helen of 
 Troy was certainly over-estimated. Night before 
 last, I waltzed with this wonder, and proposed, was 
 refused, and told her that I was going home to kill 
 myself. But something or other put it out of my 
 mind. And when I woke in the morning, there was 
 your Poppaea Sabina at the telephone, to tell me 
 that Ki-ki was in a frightful way from eating Roque- 
 fort cheese. Without mentioning names, I asked her 
 advice: should I kill myself, or not? She said no. 
 I'm a weak fellow where the sex is concerned. So 
 here I stand. But when I meet Miss Bellamy 
 again, how the deuce am I going to explain my 
 presence?" 
 
 "What is this Miss Bellamy in Rome for?" Sebas- 
 tian Maure inquired, while covering a yawn. 
 
 "To break hearts, I should say. Hearts of all 
 nationalities. Even English. At the Grand, there's 
 a young British soldier on furlough, a lieutenant of
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 7 
 
 cavalry, stationed in Egypt. He has ramrods sewn 
 into the backs of all his coats, and no more expression 
 than my Copenhagen- ware grenadier. But he's fol- 
 lowed her here from Cairo. However, one may be 
 fairly easy on that score. He's only the younger 
 brother of the Earl of Lemster." 
 
 For a while Sebastian Maure said nothing. At 
 last, clearing his throat, he uttered: 
 
 " It just happens that the Earl of Lemster's come 
 down with an incurable disease. In London they're 
 giving him about six months more." 
 
 "Accidente!" 
 
 Aghast, the Russian assumed a camel's-hair bath- 
 robe and an eye-glass. Sebastian raised his heavy 
 brows. 
 
 "That turns the scale in his favor, you think?" 
 
 "No, no. We do her an injury. If you knew 
 her- 
 
 "In fact, I believe I met her once, somewhere or 
 other." 
 
 "And?" 
 
 "I seem to remember what's called a saintly face, 
 reconciled somehow to a Paris-made figure." 
 
 Andreas Romanovitch became serious, and 
 younger-looking. 
 
 "She is good," he said, simply. "She is beautiful 
 inside as well as out. When you see that girl, her 
 clear gaze, her pure lips, and the light that shines 
 through her face, all your sordidly acquired thoughts 
 drop away like a garment of stale rags, and you're 
 clothed again in the ideals of youth. If I might go
 
 8 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 through life with such an angel, I could become a 
 decent sort." 
 
 "Now you are really entertaining." 
 
 "Do you think a good woman can't reform a 
 man?" ' 
 
 " So you want to be reformed? " 
 
 "By her, yes." 
 
 "Precisely. In your heart, you want to be 
 teacher, not pupil." 
 
 "Good Heavens," cried Andreas, flushing, "has it 
 never been revealed to you that pure virtue is in- 
 corruptible? " 
 
 "In the first place, among mortals and I know 
 nothing of any better species there is no such thing 
 as pure virtue. In the second place, no mortal virtue 
 is incorruptible." 
 
 "What a wretch! His thoughts blight whatever 
 they touch!" 
 
 "The truth is often fatal." 
 
 "The truth! I shall say a little prayer that some 
 day you find it!" 
 
 "You still go to church, Andreas?" 
 
 "Certainly. And often weep before the Cross." 
 
 "Why there, particularly?" 
 
 Andreas went into the bedchamber, and threw him- 
 self on the bed. 
 
 "Go take your tub," he shouted. "Long ago I 
 gave up reading your cursed books. Now I sha'n't 
 even talk to you any longer." 
 
 "It's always those not sure of their faith who have 
 to close their ears to heretics," the other remarked.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 9 
 
 y 
 
 He stripped the split pajamas from his big frame, at 
 once herculean and soft, and entered the bath- 
 room. 
 
 When the water was as hot as he could bear, he 
 lay down in the tub, wedged a sponge behind his 
 neck, closed his eyes, and remained motionless, 
 smiling. 
 
 He was used to indignation more intense than this. 
 For countless persons who knew him only by hearsay 
 or through his writings, no epithet was too bad to 
 tag him with, no story about him too shocking for 
 belief. Wherever he went and there were few 
 countries that he had not penetrated he was sure 
 to be called by some traveller "the man without a 
 soul." 
 
 This description amused him. He did not believe 
 in souls. 
 
 He had never felt those mysterious enthusiasms 
 which fix in almost every heart, some time or other, 
 the conviction of immortality. He had never re- 
 ceived that unaccountable influx of trust which 
 makes God actual without need of proof. The ex- 
 periences of visionaries and mystics he attributed to 
 nervous or mental disorders. Just so he laid every- 
 thing in life to some material cause. 
 
 Calmly expecting obliteration at death, he re- 
 garded with contempt the efforts of those about him 
 to convince themselves and each other of their per- 
 petuity. 
 
 But the world has always had its full share of 
 agnostics. It was not Sebastian Maure's irreligion
 
 io THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 \ 
 \ 
 
 that excited such abuse. His supreme offence lay in 
 his formulas for conduct. 
 
 If life was a spark that soon went out forever, one 
 owed it to himself to squeeze out of living the last 
 drop of personal satisfaction. Saintliness for saints, 
 if saintliness pleased them best. But for others an 
 equal liberty to pursue the most congenial pleasures. 
 
 In Sebastian Maure's romances, the central fig- 
 ure, however ingeniously disguised, was always the 
 same, wealthy, extraordinarily brilliant up to certain 
 levels, full-blooded, ruthless, appetent, disdainful of 
 every convention that opposed his individuality, 
 frankly hostile to such ideals as forbearance and re- 
 morse, which Christian civilization has perfected. 
 Not that Sebastian Maure was ignorant of the great 
 world-movement toward altruism, human brother- 
 
 V ' 
 
 hood, the betterment of life for the unborn. His dis- 
 position merely prevented him from sympathizing 
 with such enterprises. For him they were symp- 
 toms of what he called "the modern weakness." 
 
 Had he been less a literary artist, all this propa- 
 ganda might have passed unnoticed into the limbo 
 of perverse philosophies. But his few books owned 
 an insidious eloquence that could not be ignored. 
 That he had sufficient talent to be fascinating was, 
 for innumerable honest folk, his crowning outrage. 
 
 To him all this storming seemed ridiculous. 
 
 "And Andreas, too, still goes bleating along in that 
 herd of silly sheep ! ..." 
 
 Torpid from the hot bath, he began to doze. It 
 seemed to him that he had just been presented to
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE n 
 
 4 
 
 Andreas Romanovitch on a fair green lawn, before a 
 marquee round which ladies were chatting under par- 
 asols. But the scene suggested Autumn instead of 
 Winter, and France instead of Italy, while the voice 
 of Andreas Romanovitch was issuing from the lips of 
 a tall girl in white, as coldly beautiful as Artemis, 
 who looked at him with aversion in the depths of her 
 eyes. Or rather, it was not Andreas's voice at all, 
 but hers, though the words were surely his "Has it x 
 never been revealed to you that pure virtue is in- I 
 corruptible? ..." 
 
 He woke with a start. The bath-room was full of 
 steam. The Russian's forked beard was wagging in 
 the doorway. 
 
 " Sebastian, in my anger I lied to you. I still read 
 them, God forgive me! Come out of your Inferno. 
 Tito is here; and breakfast is on the table." 
 
 In the study, a short and stocky young man, re- 
 splendent in the uniform of the Genoa Cavalry, his 
 swarthy face ornamented with a fierce little mus- 
 tache, was exploring the bookcases for "something 
 racy." It was the Sicilian, the Marchese Tito di 
 Torredidone. 
 
 To Sebastian, by way of greeting: 
 
 "Have you been reading his Poems of Alexis 
 Piron? I can't find them here." 
 
 "Then he has undoubtedly burned them." 
 
 "Would to Heaven I had," said Andreas Roman- 
 ovitch. "As a matter of fact, I loaned them to 
 Fiammetta." 
 
 By the window, on a table covered with Floren- 
 tine lacework, two silver warming-dishes flanked a
 
 12 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 bowl of violets. A near-by tabouret held a coffee- 
 percolator and some wine-bottles. Andreas Roman- 
 ovitch, a cigarette in one hand and a fork in the other, 
 was beginning his meal, in Russian style, with snacks 
 of anchovies, Swiss cheese, smoked sturgeon, spiced 
 eels, and pickled mushrooms. From beneath his 
 bath-robe peeped out a pair of bright-green socks. As 
 he reached forward to spear a slice of cheese, a gold 
 bracelet slid down his arm to clank against his wrist- 
 watch. 
 
 "Have you no appetite, Sebastian," he mumbled. 
 "I mean, no normal one? Will you commence with 
 'zakouska,' or plunge at once into the devilled kid- 
 neys? Then there's a steak alia Pizzaiola, ill-advised, 
 perhaps, on account of the garlic. For who knows, 
 in this world, what may turn up between noon and 
 midnight?" 
 
 "I must say," commented Sebastian, sitting down, 
 "you manage to do yourself very well in your new 
 quarters. By the way, where are we?" 
 
 " Give yourself the trouble to look out the window 
 and you'll see the Corso. It's expensive; but as you 
 know, in Rome, so far as strangers go, he who econo- 
 mizes is lost. Besides, how the devil does one set 
 about economizing? I take it one can't do without 
 the necessities of life!" 
 
 Sebastian Maure, who had never economized, or 
 done without anything he wanted, devoted himself, 
 with a shrug, to the devilled kidneys, which he cov- 
 ered with cayenne pepper. But abruptly Andreas 
 cried out: 
 
 " Ha ! Ha ! The bones for those who come late ! ' '
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 13 
 
 And he jumped up to welcome a lithe, handsome 
 man with a clear olive skin, a black beard trimmed 
 to a point, and flashing teeth, who stood in the door- 
 way smiling. It was the Italian novelist Ernesto 
 Sangallo, not forty years old, but famous already 
 throughout Europe for his three books on Church 
 and State. 
 
 This afternoon, he was on his way to Safonoff's 
 concert at the Augusteo. Prince Campobasso was 
 giving a stag box-party. 
 
 At the word "Augusteo," Andreas, without fur- 
 ther thought of breakfast, began running round fran- 
 tically in search of clothes. Between shouts for his 
 servant, he exhorted Sebastian: 
 
 "Do you know what precious things will be played 
 this afternoon while you sit there munching? The 
 sixth symphony of Tschaikowsky, the Patetica! The 
 Kamarinskaiti of Glinka! Four melodies by Liadow! 
 La nuit de Noel, by Rimsky-Korsakow! Incorrigible 
 sensualist! Leave food alone, and dress!" 
 
 "You'd much better stay home. Music excites 
 without satisfying." 
 
 Sebastian Maure drank his coffee and a liqueur- 
 glass of vodka, chose from the humidor a large cigar, 
 and seated himself in an arm-chair. Ernesto San- 
 gallo, the smile fading from his sensitive lips, scru- 
 tinized him thoughtfully. He asked : 
 
 "Have you left cards on your friends?" 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 "Make haste. The dinners are coming thick and 
 fast. The Campobassi give a ball on Thursday.
 
 14 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Then, of course, the two regular weekly meetings in 
 the Campagna. But the farmers, to discourage us, 
 still make the top-bars of their five-foot fences as 
 tight as ever. A French officer was killed last week 
 in a run near La Pisana." 
 
 "There's no gambling so good as a game with 
 Death," declared Andreas, jumping into his trousers. 
 
 "Per Bacco! You should go to war." 
 
 " I have been there. What's more, I was wounded. " 
 
 "Where did this happen?" 
 
 "In a drawing-room near the Morskaia, in Pe- 
 tersburg. An old general fired five shots at me. 
 Fortunately, there wasn't much light, and he'd just 
 returned from a highly copious banquet. He missed 
 me, at the expense of his cloisonne and majolica. 
 But even Napoleon knew when to retreat. I dropped 
 out of a window." 
 
 "Then how were you wounded?" 
 
 "Oh, when I landed I broke my ankle." 
 
 After a moment, Tito chuckled. 
 
 "Andreas, as my uncle the Cardinal would say, 
 you have no morals to speak of, but you are devil- 
 ish amusing." 
 
 "I think," said Ernesto Sangallo, "he has quite 
 as much morality as a man needs, to be sure of 
 indulgence." 
 
 "What do I hear?" cried the object of this dis- 
 cussion. 
 "VI say you are a good man." 
 
 The Russian glared at Sangallo. 
 
 "I'm no such thing! I am a very profligate, cyn-
 
 THE ISL.E OF LIFE 15 
 
 ical, and degraded fellow, and every one knows it. 
 I take good care that every one knows it. It's all 
 I have to make me interesting in this gossip-nour- 
 ished graveyard of a Rome! And now you come 
 under my roof to filch my reputation! Bah! You 
 annoy me frightfully!" 
 
 Sangallo laughed gently. 
 
 "On the contrary, I please you, though nothing 
 could ever make you admit it. And I'll please you 
 still further. You are not only a good man, Andreas 
 Romanovitch, but before you die you will find some 
 good work to do." 
 
 Sangallo, while speaking, looked at the young Rus- 
 sian steadily. And Andreas was suddenly sobered 
 by that expression. 
 
 "Mon Dieu! Is it really a fact, what they say: 
 that this chap is one of those who see things?" 
 
 Sangallo hesitated, glanced round, perceived Se- 
 bastian squinting at him through the smoke. He 
 responded, as if preoccupied with newer thoughts: 
 
 " Ah, we all see more than we realize, I think. . . ." 
 
 Sebastian's valet appeared. Twenty minutes later, 
 the four set out, in Tito's automobile, for the Au- 
 gusteo. 
 
 The motor-car crawled along the Corso. Even 
 at this still unfashionable hour, the narrow street 
 was blocked with cabs, while the inadequate side- 
 walks were hidden beneath dawdling pedestrians. 
 Here and there, in a window of a palace, a face 
 looked down indifferently upon the throng. At 
 church-doors, old beggars held back the hanging
 
 16 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 screens of leather. Over all shone that blazing sun- 
 light which brings to Rome round mid-day, even in 
 winter, something of tropic heat. 
 
 But suddenly all was chill and damp the motor- 
 car, in a mean street too narrow for the sunshine, 
 halted before a sort of tunnel. The four, alighting, 
 passed through into a court-yard. Here people were 
 entering a great circular structure half hidden by 
 the slattern walls that heeled against it. It had 
 been the tomb of the Divine Augustus. To-day, it 
 was the aristocratic concert-hall of Rome. 
 
 Don Livio, head of the famous Campobasso family, 
 was already in his box. Sebastian Maure shook 
 hands with a tall, fair man of thirty-eight, his im- 
 passive face adorned with an uptwirled brown mus- 
 tache and an eye-glass that seemed part of his 
 physiognomy. His mother had been an English- 
 woman, and his wife was an American. He him- 
 self, like many Italian nobles, had a look and man- 
 ner distinctly Anglo-Saxon. Nothing surprised him. 
 
 "You in town, eh? Good of you to show up. 
 We shall want you for that affair of ours on Thurs- 
 day night. . . ." 
 
 They were looking out over a spacious auditorium, 
 decorated in pale-green and gold, the red-uphol- 
 stered boxes suspended above the main floor in a 
 sweeping semicircle. On the stage, a large orchestra 
 was tuning to an incessant din. 
 
 Andreas, while ogling the boxes, chattered in Se- 
 bastian's ear: 
 
 "There is de Chaumont, the new French attache,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 17 
 
 and Mme. Berthe, his wife. They aren't too happy. 
 You know the big, brownish fellow with them, our 
 local saint, Don Giulio, of the Dukes of Brazzazza? 
 By rights, he belongs among the Blacks; but un- 
 fortunately, in that society, one couldn't meet Mme. 
 Berthe. Note the mysterious-looking lady in the 
 interesting gown. Mme. Semadeni, a country- 
 woman of mine, from the Caucasus. But since she's 
 bowing to you . . . Bigre, the Torquato is telling 
 the Marchesa of Portagialla all about you: don't 
 you observe how pleased the old girl seems, as she 
 always does when she hears something shocking? 
 ... Ah, ah, ah!" 
 
 Sebastian followed his stare. He saw, in a box 
 full of ladies, Ghirlaine Bellamy, the American. 
 
 Her blonde beauty was often said to be too nearly 
 flawless. Its startling purity made her appear, at 
 first glance, almost unapproachable. It called to 
 mind certain Greek statues of the virgin goddess 
 a human shape informed, as it were, with a radiance 
 unnaturally immaculate. It was of a quality to 
 arouse instinctive reverence, rather than personal 
 passion. 
 
 But in a case where reverence was not instinctive? 
 
 Sebastian Maure had met her once, and only for 
 a moment. He had seen that she immediately de- 
 tested him. Yet now he had come from the other 
 end of Europe to Rome, because she was here. 
 
 And, as he gazed across the auditorium at her 
 cold loveliness, which was like a serene defiance to 
 all the brutality hi his nature, it seemed to him that
 
 1 8 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 his desire for her, after smouldering a year, was sud- 
 denly consuming him. 
 
 At his burning scrutiny, slowly she met his eyes. 
 Though her face did not change, he knew that she 
 remembered him. But a ripple of hand-clapping ran 
 through the house. She looked away. 
 
 On the stage, SafonorT, appearing before his or- 
 chestra, raised his hands. 
 
 And the Patetica began, swelling out, through the 
 hush, like a premonition of immeasurable travail.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 WHEN Ghirlaine Bellamy woke next morning, in 
 her apartment at the Excelsior Hotel, her first 
 thought was, " Something unpleasant happened yes- 
 terday." Then she remembered the Augusteo, and 
 Sebastian Maure. 
 
 She had never felt so much antipathy to any one. 
 Before meeting him, she had pictured him as sinister 
 and repulsive: she had wondered how "good soci- 
 ety" could tolerate a character so hostile to its con- 
 ventions. Moreover, certain stories brought home 
 by travellers, who claimed to have crossed his trail 
 in far corners of the world, should have excluded 
 him, in her opinion, even from the lax air of foreign 
 capitals. 
 
 At their meeting, a year before, this aversion had 
 developed into personal repugnance. Just during 
 their brief exchange of commonplaces, she had per- 
 ceived in him the birth of a rapacious covetousness, 
 so nearly frank that before she could rid herself of 
 him it had begun to envelop her almost like a phys- 
 ical approach. 
 
 That such a being as Sebastian Maure should be\ 
 thus attracted to her was outrageous. For did not 
 the attraction of one nature to another presuppose 
 some sort of mutual sympathy? 
 
 19
 
 20 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Still smarting under this insult yesterday renewed, 
 she could not bring herself to dismiss him with seren- 
 ity. 
 
 An orphan, and her own mistress, since her eigh- 
 teenth year, she was usually self-reliant and cou- 
 rageous. But to-day a vague uneasiness was trying 
 to possess her. Of late, she had been thinking a 
 great deal about one man who wanted to marry her. 
 So now, all at once, the remembrance of his clean 
 strength and sanity was reassuring. 
 
 And, as she was going to ride with him this morn- 
 ing in the Borghese Gardens, she made haste to call 
 her maid, make her toilette, and don her habit. 
 
 She left her bedchamber, passed through a pale- 
 blue salon, knocked on the opposite door. 
 
 "Aunt Charlotte?" 
 
 "Come in, my dear." 
 
 She found her aunt at what is called, in European 
 hostelries, "an American breakfast." 
 
 Mrs. Alexander Bellamy was small and elderly, 
 with fresh cheeks, white water-curls, and an air of high 
 self-respect. A widow, accustomed to the somno- 
 lent respectability of "old New York," she had 
 become, through a cruel trick of Fate, her niece's 
 habitual chaperon in the great world of Europe. 
 
 Now, pointing to a well-filled breakfast tray before 
 her, she announced: 
 
 "My child, since you ask me how I am, I'm dying 
 of indigestion. I know anger causes it. Neverthe- 
 less, I'm dying of it. Some anger is virtuous. Mine 
 always is. Please examine these chops."
 
 THE I$LE OF LIFE 21 
 
 "They look like cutlets." 
 
 "They are cutlets. But they pretend to be chops, 
 just as everything in this land pretends to be what it 
 is not. Chops were my order. English ones, very 
 thick, broiled rare, over a hickory fire. I even re- 
 peated it in Italian 'Choppi Inglesi, multo grande, 
 rara, broilata sopra una conflagrazione di hickory* 
 But I forget: you don't know Italian, my dear." 
 
 "It's such a temptation not to learn it, when every 
 one understands English or French." 
 
 "This waiter, apparently, doesn't even understand 
 his own language. Do you see what he's done? He 
 or rather his accomplice has taken some very 
 good chops, and boned them, and split them, and 
 fried them in oil, and bathed them in orange-colored 
 sauce! And they call this the centre of Christen- 
 dom!" 
 
 "Poor aunty! How you hate going about!" 
 
 " We've been over all that. If you're happy, I can 
 put up with the rest. Besides, my life was always 
 too easy. I knew that Providence must have some- 
 thing different in store for me. Sooner or later, every 
 one gets his cross to bear." 
 
 "Your neuralgia's no better?" 
 
 "It is abating. By the time that ball of Betty 
 Fry's comes round or I suppose I must call her 
 Princess Campobasso these days I shall probably 
 not have so much as a twinge. I'll be forced to sit 
 up all night, with my feet on a marble floor, and talk 
 to that wicked old Marchesa of Portagialla. In our 
 circle at home, she wouldn't be tolerated an instant.
 
 22 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Nor would most of the rest, I fear! Whom are you 
 riding with now?" 
 
 "Vincent. Lieutenant Pamfort." 
 
 "At least, he's an Englishman. Tell him I can't 
 find that remedy for bronchial cough." 
 
 "But Lieutenant Pamfort hasn't a cough!" 
 
 "His horse has. Don't leave the doors open, my 
 dear. Your room is always as cold as a barn." 
 
 Ghirlaine Bellamy went downstairs and out to the 
 portico, where a groom was holding her mount, and 
 another for himself. 
 
 She rode up the sunny Via Veneto, through an 
 ancient city gate, and into the Borghese Gardens. 
 
 Before her, the wooded landscape, sombrously 
 green, stretched afar in long undulations. Here and 
 there, in the distance, statues shone forth against the 
 verdure. To the left, the ground fell away, to form 
 a circular meadow rimmed by a bridle-path. On the 
 edge of this course she drew rein, beneath some stone- 
 pine trees that spread their foliage, high in the 
 air, against the bright sky. The bridle-path was 
 empty. 
 
 At a walk, she began to round the circle, listening 
 to the birds. But a thud of hoofs swelled out behind 
 her: the groom pulled aside to let pass two galloping 
 cavaliers. They were Marchese Tito and Ernesto 
 Sangallo. She concealed her disappointment with a 
 smile. 
 
 "What energetic men!" 
 
 Tito, his wits quickened by the adjacency of 
 beauty, replied:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 23 
 
 "When one is virtuous enough to get up early, 
 there's often some reward." 
 
 Sangallo, for his part, watched her with frank en- 
 joyment. Then, riding up on the other side, he 
 remarked: 
 
 "The morning's your time indeed, when every- 
 thing is immaculate." 
 
 He was one man who never paid actual court to 
 her, yet always gave her an impression of profound 
 sympathy. But she could not resist replying: 
 
 "Do you know you have a reputation for seeing 
 things better than they are?" 
 
 "A man can never hope to see anything as good as 
 it really is. As for you, you only reveal more clearly 
 than usual what all women have that mysterious 
 inner flame, fed at an altar to which we others don't 
 know the way. In the least of you, you know, it's 
 never extinguished, it never even flickers. Though 
 it's often hidden altogether from us coarser beings, 
 because of the infirmities of our thoughts." 
 
 His words amazed her. From an American they 
 might not have seemed remarkable. But she had 
 never imagined an Italian with such ideas. 
 
 "What the deuce is he talking about?" cried Tito, 
 edging closer. "He's worse than Andreas Romano- 
 vitch. And sometimes you might as well not under- 
 stand French, Italian, or English when that fellow's 
 speaking it." 
 
 "He is showing me his high opinion of women," 
 said Ghirlaine. 
 
 "Oh!"
 
 24 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "And what," she asked Tito, "are your views on 
 that subject, Marchese?" 
 
 "I think a beautiful woman is the noblest work of 
 God," the soldier responded, promptly. "The for- 
 eigners come here hi swarms to look at paintings and 
 statuary. Ridiculous! The Corso, at six o'clock any 
 evening, offers a much more aesthetic show. Be- 
 sides, ladies of paint and marble are irritating. Se- 
 bastian Maure said something about music yesterday 
 that fits the case. What was it? 'Music ' Never 
 mind: it was excellent anyway." 
 
 "You have heard of Sebastian Maure?" Sangallo 
 asked her. 
 
 "I detest him!" 
 
 The novelist looked surprised. 
 
 "It is not good to detest things. Especially, when 
 they're pitiable. As for that man, his soul is dead. 
 And all that his marvellous literary dexterity might 
 be the instrument of, if only that dead soul of his were 
 resurrected ! Do you know that the printed word of 
 some natures has an inexplicable, dynamic power 
 that's appalling? No published phrase, of certain in- 
 dividuals, but leaves its mark on mankind, for good 
 or evil." 
 
 "I think mankind's rather too far advanced to be 
 injured by such ideas as his." 
 
 "It isn't the strong alone who read, but the weak 
 also. Weakness is always susceptible to disease. 
 How few there still are who don't need all the spirit- 
 ual tonic that genius can distil for them, from the 
 eternal truths! But the corruption of that man's 
 dead soul is always poisoning the weak and frail."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 25 
 
 T 
 
 " Capers!" ejaculated Tito, looking almost startled. 
 
 Sangallo pointed across the meadow. Two riders, 
 a man and a woman, had just appeared. 
 
 "There's little Mme. de Chaumont, the wife of the 
 new French attache. At seventeen her family mar- 
 ried her to a stranger. He was a fashionable young 
 Parisian, steeped in that peculiarly immoral local 
 literature which is quite heartless while pretending to 
 be all heart. His was one of the malleable natures. 
 Example, more than anything else, has made him 
 what he is. For ten years his wife has endured his 
 viciousness. Since the Church won't divorce them, 
 she goes on enduring it. But that's nothing new. 
 It's only something too old, that we're going to 
 sweep out, some day, with a lot of other rubbish." 
 
 "Who is riding with her?" 
 
 "Don Giulio Brazzazza." 
 
 "The man with the paralyzed sister? A sort of 
 recluse, is he not? " 
 
 "Un orso a bear," vouchsafed Tito, using the 
 slang phrase for unsocial men. "And a 'Black' one. 
 He gives tremendous sums to the Vatican, when he 
 might be living like old what's-his-name Lucullus." 
 
 "A natural saintly type," Sangallo observed. 
 "The direct contrast to de Chaumont. The sort to 
 revive the idealism of a convent school-girl. Guess 
 what has happened!" 
 
 "If he were half a man," Tito growled, "instead of 
 nine-tenths a monk, he'd run away with her." 
 
 "And she?" Ghirlaine turned to Sangallo. He 
 answered:
 
 26 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "A woman in love stands ready to give or with- 
 hold, to be infinitely weak or strong, obedient as 
 man seldom is to the command of destiny, when it 
 comes to her through the desire of her one true 
 mate." 
 
 "Corpo di Bacco!" said Tito, beaming, "but this is 
 conversation!" 
 
 They were walking their horses on the far side of 
 the circle. Across the meadow rose the brown walls 
 of ancient Rome, and the crumbling turrets of the 
 Pinciana Gate. There, at last, beneath the stone- 
 pines, a slim rider appeared. Sangallo announced: 
 
 "We must be pushing on. Tito wants to try this 
 nag at the Parioli jumps before the next fox-hunting." 
 
 "The future is full of time," Tito grumbled. 
 
 "For you, perhaps, Sicilian, but not for me. For- 
 ward! Trot! Gallop!" 
 
 And they set off round the circle, waving good-bys, 
 and scattering dirt-clods high in the air behind them. 
 
 But Ghirlaine, holding her horse to a walk, awaited 
 the new-comer. 
 
 He approached, comely, alert, perhaps thirty years 
 old, already distinguished-looking, his small yellow 
 mustache almost white against his tan. His face 
 showed the self-repression of a long line of English 
 gentlemen. But his eyes appeared anxious. 
 
 "I'm not late?" 
 
 "No; I was early." 
 
 "Those fellows were away like a shot." 
 
 "Sangallo's a dear." 
 
 "Oh, I see." He flushed with pleasure. Then,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 27 
 
 as they proceeded side by side, he jerked out the 
 words: 
 
 "Anything new?" 
 
 "Almost. . . ." 
 
 He drew a deep breath. She went on: 
 
 "Won't you give me a day or two longer? It's 
 such an important thing!" 
 
 "That first night, in Egypt, I knew it was the 
 most important thing I should ever have in my life. 
 I don't blame you for hesitating, though. Somehow, 
 I feel that I'm almost cheating you. It's curious: 
 an English girl wouldn't make me feel, as you do, 
 that I've so little to offer. . . . Even now, when 
 things are opening out before me, at home . . . 
 By the way, I got a despatch in the night that my 
 brother's very bad. I may have to go on any day." 
 
 She made a gesture of distress. 
 
 "It does seem heartless," Pamfort admitted, 
 gloomily. "But we'd get no credit for feeling 
 that way from him. He's always disliked me, and 
 thought I hated him because he had the title and 
 the estate. For that matter, he's quarrelled with 
 all of us, even the women. Maude told me last 
 evening she might not go up to the funeral." 
 
 He referred to his sister, Lady Glastenwold, who 
 was staying in Rome. 
 
 "Do you know," said Ghirlaine, "that strangers 
 will say I was influenced because you were going to 
 be Earl of Lemster?" 
 
 "No more than that I was influenced because you 
 had a fortune."
 
 28 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Did you ever think of that?" she asked, in low 
 tones. 
 
 He met her gaze without flinching. 
 
 "Inevitably. I've always been glad of it. It's 
 helped to make you how shall I say it the most 
 perfectly finished thing in the world." 
 
 "And. the strangers would be right, in a way, 
 about the title and the estate. For that will make 
 something sure " She felt herself blushing. "That 
 will make sure a dream of mine, that you must be- 
 lieve isn't sordid, but that I can't tell you now. . . ." 
 
 They rode on in silence. She contemplated the 
 picture of the future that those thoughts called up. 
 
 She saw a great house in a fair, congenial country, 
 where the ideals of a healthy race, continually reviv- 
 ified in that northern air, maintained the example 
 of an illustrious history. There, where the future 
 seemed inviolable like the past, she might fulfil 
 splendidly her proper destiny as a mother of sons. 
 What finer gifts, for those little beings that lived 
 only in imagination, yet were already loved instinc- 
 tively? 
 
 For it was characteristic of her rather exceptional 
 temperament that, with the unfolding of instinct, 
 her reveries had preferred to reach out beyond the 
 thought of love to the thought of maternity. 
 
 Her life with him would be made smooth by mut- 
 ual respect and delicate reticence. She fancied long 
 years in beautiful surroundings, amid loving chil- 
 dren, with only peaceful happiness in retrospection. 
 She was twenty-five. Nowhere else had she found
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 29 
 
 such promises. Why did she still hesitate as if not 
 quite sure but that fate might have in store for her 
 experiences more vital than these? 
 
 She was on the point of making her decision. But 
 he said: 
 
 "There's something I should have told you sooner, 
 perhaps. I don't want the slightest suspicion of dis- 
 honesty between us. ... There used to be a girl at 
 home. Not very well off. Good county people, you 
 know. We grew up together. Folks rather took it 
 for granted that we'd marry some day. . . . But I 
 went to Egypt. And you appeared. ... So I 
 found I'd been mistaken. . . ." 
 
 The sunshine seemed to her less bright. Never 
 had she been conscious of inflicting pain without 
 perceiving in the world about her a subtle, melan- 
 choly alteration. Was she injuring some one now, 
 whose sorrow, reaching across sea and land, cast a 
 film of sadness over her surroundings? Beneath the 
 stone-pines she drew rein. 
 
 "Thank you, Vincent, for telling me that." 
 "Not going! At least, I'll see you home." 
 "I find I want to be by myself to-day." 
 "She hasn't made a difference!" 
 "Not unless we could be hurting her." 
 "Oh, nothing could very well hurt her! She's al- 
 ways been as strong and bluff as a man. A big, 
 sunburnt boy, with a pack of terriers falling over 
 her feet, and a stick in her hand, to kill vermin 
 in the coverts. . . ." 
 "Ah! . ."
 
 30 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Ghirlaine returned to the hotel. And all day she 
 strove to escape that thought. . . . 
 
 "But she is a stranger! Surely I owe her noth- 
 ing!" 
 
 Yet a voice seemed to murmur in her ear: 
 "Who can say what debts we owe, to the remotest 
 human beings?" 
 
 "Is it possible that I'm heartless?" 
 
 "Still, if I stop to consider another, do I really 
 love him enough?" 
 
 Before this idea she recoiled. For it seemed to 
 her terrible that a woman should deliver herself over 
 to a man not loved completely. 
 
 "But what is love!" 
 
 She had had her share of immature devotions, of 
 girlish infatuations, of longings of that peculiar, im- 
 material sort that are rarely found outside Anglo- 
 Saxon countries, and that have their centre, per- 
 haps, in America. A girl of Latin race, made aware 
 of Ghirlaine's past sentimental experiences, would 
 not have considered them experiences at all. But 
 girls of Latin race are generally accustomed, from 
 immaturity, to an introspection that Ghirlaine, at 
 least, had always instinctively avoided. 
 
 But to-day it was not to be avoided. . . . 
 
 "The Scirocco is blowing. Perhaps that's what 
 makes me so strange. ..." 
 
 In her motor-car she was borne at random through 
 the streets. With vacant eyes, she gazed on the dis- 
 mal grandeur of old palace walls, on the dripping 
 nudity of fountains, on blotched church-fronts, on
 
 3I 
 
 the ancient marble w |ffl^HR^^ n ^ ^ ere anc ^ tnere > 
 amid modern structun*S7mresoIemn messages of the 
 ineffaceable effect of beauty. In busier thorough- 
 fares, she alighted at shop-doors. But all the triv- 
 ial and complicated luxuries that she purchased 
 left her listless. Toward five o'clock, it occurred to 
 her that Lady Glastenwold would be at the Excel- 
 sior for tea. Might not his sister set her mind at 
 rest? She drove homeward. 
 
 Before the hotel, limousines and carriages were 
 drawing up. Within, on the enormous pink rug of 
 the "marble room," the arrivals were shaking hands 
 and chattering. From the winter garden strains of 
 music floated out above glass screens, through which 
 were visible tall palms, green marble pillars, glisten- 
 ing tea-tables. In this room Ghirlaine found, at 
 one table, Princess Campobasso with her eight-year- 
 old daughter Donna Isotta, the Marchesa della Por- 
 tagialla, Donna Letizia Torquato, and Lady Glas- 
 tenwold. 
 
 Princess Campobasso was a handsome American 
 with majestic figure, red hair, and vivid coloring. 
 Though her marriage to Prince Livio had given her 
 the entree into that innermost social circle of the 
 capital, sometimes called "The New Exclusion 
 League," she preferred the cosmopolitan diplomatic 
 set, because of its superior vivacity. Through ea- 
 gerness not to appear unsophisticated in European 
 society, she had acquired a somewhat hard brill- 
 iancy of manner. She had, indeed, done everything 
 to be chic, except to contract a liaison. For this all
 
 32 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Rome was waiting, content that it would know the 
 fact almost before she did herself. 
 
 Drawing Ghirlaine into a chair beside her, she 
 laughed: 
 
 "You're just in time to be shocked. The Mar- 
 chesa is giving proofs why men used to be more 
 fascinating." 
 
 In her youth, Marchesa della Portagialla had been 
 a beauty. To-day, one saw a small, obese old woman 
 who walked on two canes, and whose fat face, cov- 
 ered with purplish powder, was graced by a griz- 
 zled mustache. Enlarging her black eyes at Ghir- 
 laine, she nodded solemnly. 
 
 "Oui, ma petite," she asserted, in an asthmatic 
 voice as deep as a man's. "When I was young, 
 they were terrible but quite terrible and conse- 
 quently far nicer. La, la! My children, one lived, 
 in the Rome of those days!" 
 
 "Perhaps," ventured Princess Campobasso, mis- 
 chievously, "it's some tiresome change or other in 
 public opinion that's altered them, poor dears!" 
 
 "Public opinion! Bah! There has always been 
 public opinion. But men who were worth the name 
 never lost much time in shutting the door on it 
 and hanging their hats on the key-hole." 
 
 None but Ghirlaine seemed to pay any attention 
 to little Donna Isotta. The latter, though engrossed 
 apparently with a cafe parfait, listened gravely to 
 everything. Like most children raised in Italian 
 households, she had overheard already, in her short 
 life, some very strange conversations. And the Mar-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 33 
 
 chesa of Portagialla would certainly never have 
 thought of editing her remarks on Ghirlaine's ac- 
 count. Besides, in her opinion, these American girls, 
 who habitually went off alone, Heaven only knew 
 where, were not to be classed as jeunes filles at all. 
 
 "Isotta," said Ghirlaine, "I didn't see you out in 
 your basket-cart this morning." 
 
 "I lay abed. The Scirocco gave me a headache." 
 
 "That's a pity. The Gardens were beautiful 
 at first. . . ." 
 
 "I like the Pincio in the evening better, when 
 everybody's driving. One sees more." 
 
 "More people, but not so many flowers." 
 
 "People are more interesting. We don't grow up 
 to be flowers." She sipped her parfait serenely. "I 
 like to watch people," she declared, in her clear, in- 
 fantile voice. 
 
 "Poor baby," thought Ghirlaine, "has she had 
 no childhood at all?" Thank God, her children 
 would not be like this one! Nor like the child of 
 another here! And she looked at Donna Letizia 
 Torquato, a sweet-faced woman of forty, whose 
 brown skin nearly matched her eyes and crinkling 
 hair. A widow now, she had married into the ven- 
 erable and crumbling Torquato family, to give birth 
 to a degenerate son. This afternoon, as the Queen 
 had been receiving, she wore on her breast, under 
 her furs, a large monogram of diamonds, her badge 
 as Lady-of-the-Palace. Meeting Ghirlaine's gaze, 
 she smiled sympathetically. But the old Marchesa 
 babbled on:
 
 34 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Imagine! It was three in the morning! The 
 house was roused! Don Sigismondo was hammering 
 on the door with the butts of his duelling-pistols! 
 Thrilling?" 
 
 "Altro more than thrilling!" exclaimed Princess 
 Campobasso, with a delicious shudder. 
 
 "Footling, I call it," said Lady Glastenwold. "A 
 woman who doesn't play a man square isn't worth 
 raising the roof for." Her flat cheeks were bright, 
 and her lips closed firmly over her rather projecting 
 teeth. With her ash-blonde hair simply dressed, and 
 her tailor-made suit, she presented a picture of thor- 
 oughly British disapproval. 
 
 "You know," she added, her voice full of the un- 
 compromising severity that still remains among the 
 old county aristocracy in England, "the best people 
 everywhere owe it to their position never to make 
 themselves ridiculous." 
 
 "Dear Lady Maude," replied the Marchesa, 
 sweetly, "all love-affairs can't be conducted in the 
 midst of the North Sea." 
 
 "No, I suppose you're right," Lady Glastenwold 
 assented, with generous condescension. "Well, I'm 
 off! I promised to drop in on young Brian Dungan- 
 nan. He's showing his latest statue." 
 
 "I haven't had a word with you yet," Ghirlaine 
 protested. 
 
 "Nor I with you. Drink your tea, and I'll take 
 you along." 
 
 "Ah, you tireless Anglo-Saxons!" drawled a new 
 voice.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 35 
 
 A lissome, black-haired woman, with almond- 
 shaped eyes, attired in a rather spectacular gown and 
 hat, had wandered over, cigarette in hand, from a 
 neighboring table. She was Mme. Semadeni, the 
 Slav from the Caucasus, of whom no one knew any- 
 thing in particular except that she had the approval 
 of the Russian Ambassador, was extremely well off, 
 and gave perfect dinners. Standing in a limp, grace- 
 ful attitude by Ghirlaine's chair, she stared down at 
 the girl with an inscrutable smile. 
 
 "How I envy you! At the close of an enervating 
 day you still look so supremely vital!" 
 
 "Do I? I feel rather done." 
 
 Mme. Semadeni regarded her thoughtfully. 
 
 "Perhaps there is something different about you. 
 Not weariness, though. Something else." 
 
 She sat down beside Ghirlaine with a single, sinu- 
 ous movement. 
 
 "Do you know," she said, in low tones, with a 
 subtle smile, "to-day you have the appearance of 
 being under a shadow? This afternoon I should like 
 to read your hand." 
 
 "You believe in palmistry?" asked Ghirlaine, smil- 
 ing in turn. 
 
 The Russian glanced at the others. They were 
 asking Donna Letizia about the Queen's reception. 
 
 "For me," Mme. Semadeni replied, "it's not so 
 much the lines of the palm as the impression I get, 
 when I hold the passive hands of certain persons, at 
 certain times. For now and then portents cluster 
 round us that we ourselves don't fathom, but that
 
 36 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 some one else, used to receiving strange impressions, 
 may see for an instant. Perhaps I talk foolishness? " 
 
 "You interest me. So you think that events de- 
 scend upon us, instead of waiting for us to shape 
 them?" 
 
 "They descend upon us, of course. The past and 
 the future are full of forces that order our every 
 gesture, direct our every step. Out of what has been, 
 and what is yet to be, they are always approaching 
 us, like great, slow-moving winged angels, each with 
 his secret influence to work. And the wind of their 
 wings sweeps us forward, backward. . . ." 
 
 "If that were so, we should have no power over 
 ourselves, no choice between good and evil." 
 
 "Who can say what is good and what is evil? 
 They are inseparable. They are the same thing. 
 And either must be a happy choice, because both 
 bring blessings. . . . Well, will you let me take your 
 hand?" 
 
 Ghirlaine hesitated. This curious woman had 
 roused all her superstition. Was it possible that her 
 day-long agitation could be translated thus? 
 
 Above the music she heard, as if far off, the Mar- 
 chesa wheezing: 
 
 "Even when Florence was the capital, they did 
 things much better " 
 
 She held out her hand, and Mme. Semadeni took it. 
 
 For a while, the Russian said nothing. Then, 
 abruptly, her eyes dilated. 
 
 "This is strange. There seems to be some sort of 
 bond between you and me. ..."
 
 THE ISLE^OF LIFE 37 
 
 She was silent again. At last, she slowly pro- 
 nounced : 
 
 "You are in danger." 
 
 "Danger! Of what?" 
 
 " I cannot feel that. . . . Things are on the verge. 
 , . . It is like an avalanche, trembling before it falls." 
 
 "Will it M?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She dropped Ghirlaine's hand. The music had 
 stopped. People round them were rising. 
 
 "Now I am sorry! It's sometimes bad to strike a 
 light in the dark." 
 
 "I'm sure," replied Ghirlaine, trying to smile, 
 "that it's all your imagination." 
 
 " Ah, no doubt ! No doubt ! " 
 
 Ghirlaine rose to her feet. 
 
 "Ready?" asked Lady Glastenwold, briskly. 
 
 "Do you care if I change my mind? I'm rather 
 too fagged, after all." 
 
 "You do look pale. Run upstairs and lie down 
 before dinner." 
 
 "The foreigners," remarked the Marchesa, se- 
 verely, "make a great mistake not to take the siesta 
 in Rome. They get so they can't digest, end up with 
 a bilious chill, and call it Roman fever. So the city 
 obtains a bad name." 
 
 Ghirlaine, leaving, heard Mme. Semadeni drawl in 
 reply: 
 
 "How easy it is for a city, even, to get a bad 
 name. ..." 
 
 She ascended to her apartment.
 
 38 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 It was empty. Darkness had fallen. The atmos- 
 phere in the salon stifled her. She raised a window. 
 But the air of the street was no less oppressive. 
 From afar came a rumble of thunder. 
 
 The vague uneasiness of the morning returned to 
 her. In the face of forebodings that she could not 
 understand, yet that seemed to her, just now, as real 
 as the gathering storm, she felt like calling for help. 
 
 She turned on the lights, sat down at a writing- 
 desk, and scribbled the words: 
 
 Yes. Ghirlaine. 
 
 Below she added: 
 
 Come quickly. 
 
 The envelope she addressed to: 
 
 Lieutenant the Honorable Vincent Pamfort, Grand Hotel. 
 
 Her maid entered, and took away the note. 
 
 "It's done. . . ." 
 
 She returned to the open window. Thunder 
 was crashing over the hills. Rain was falling in 
 torrents. Already the air seemed clearer, and she 
 less frightened.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE Palazzo Campobasso stood in a narrow street 
 now devoted chiefly to the shops and dwellings of the 
 humble. Amid the squalor of that neighborhood it 
 seemed like a venerable aristocrat, who remains ma- 
 jestic in whatever environment Time places him. 
 
 On Thursday night, toward eleven o'clock, the 
 palace was ablaze with lights. Before it, the way 
 resounded with a clatter of horses' hoofs and motor- 
 engines. And from the dilapidated windows round 
 about, the poor, craning their necks and pointing, 
 watched the arrival of great ladies, diplomatists, and 
 princes. 
 
 All equipages turned into the deep gateway, smoky 
 from torches stuck in iron sockets. The old porter, 
 his obsolete-looking cape-coat festooned with gold 
 lace, was continually raising his big hat like that 
 of a field-marshal of Napoleon, and bowing till his 
 little sword stuck up behind him. 
 
 At the rear of the pillared court-yard, the guests 
 alighted before a fine stone staircase. They as- 
 cended between rows of servants clad in the gala 
 livery of the Campobassi green coats of shaggy 
 plush, peach-colored knee-breeches, and white silk 
 stockings. At the first landing the major-domo of 
 the palace was pointing to the cloak-rooms on either 
 side. 
 
 39
 
 40 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Then emerged the dress-uniforms gay with epau- 
 lets and belts of gold and silver, the ball-gowns of 
 ladies whose throats and arms displayed the jewels 
 of great houses. And every one continued the ascent 
 toward the "noble" floor. 
 
 A vista of immense rooms appeared. Clusters of 
 wax candles shone in mid-air among the pendants of 
 elaborate chandeliers, or were reflected on all sides 
 in old mirrors that extended to the cornices. The 
 walls, lined with gilt chairs and sofas, disappeared 
 behind tapestries and paintings famous throughout 
 Europe. The ceilings either displayed great fres- 
 coes, in which gods and goddesses sprawled at ran- 
 dom amid clouds, or else interlacing rafters, rich with 
 the heraldic carving of an earlier age. In corners, 
 statues of pagan deities looked down, their smooth 
 shapes mellow from antiquity. A golden mist, in- 
 tense round the chandeliers and sconces, gave to the 
 long perspective a vague splendor. 
 
 Prince and Princess Campobasso were receiving in 
 the first apartment. The guests, after being greeted 
 by them, continued through the rooms. These were 
 so arranged that one could come round to the start- 
 ing-point without turning back, thus making the giro, 
 or tour, so desirable in the opinion of Italian host- 
 esses. Nine halls, each large enough for an ordi- 
 nary reception, had been thrown into one. In 
 the most extensive, a string-band, from SafonofFs 
 orchestra, was ready to furnish music for the 
 dancers. 
 
 An immense number of people had been invited.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 41 
 
 It was one of those monster balls, of which nowadays 
 two or three occur every year in Rome, that appar- 
 ently break down, at least for the evening, the bar- 
 riers between the several societies of the capital. 
 The diplomatic world was there in force. The New 
 Exclusion League came in contact with the cosmo- 
 politan element. Even some members of that other 
 close corporation, the Royal Court, rubbed elbows 
 with the supporters of the Vatican. A dozen years 
 before, such a conglomeration would have been im- 
 possible. 
 
 Among the last arrivals whom the Campobassi 
 welcomed, before withdrawing to the ballroom, was 
 Sebastian Maure. 
 
 "I began to think you weren't coming," said Prin- 
 cess Betty, as if she had been watching for him all 
 evening. She wore a dress of hyacinth-blue velvet 
 embroidered in silver, and a wonderful parure of 
 the Campobasso diamonds. She was slightly pale, 
 like one at the apogee of life. It was, indeed, one 
 of the supreme moments for the woman who had 
 been little Betty Fry of Madison Avenue. 
 
 "Nothing," replied Sebastian, "could have kept 
 me from this moment, dear lady." 
 
 And with that charm of manner which had not 
 deserted him, he turned to congratulate Don Livio 
 on the success of his first season as Master of the 
 Roman Hunt. 
 
 "I understand you've made the finest pack out- 
 side of England, and the least destructive field in 
 years."
 
 42 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "You must come out next week and judge for 
 yourself." 
 
 "Perhaps I may, if I find a hunter to lift me over 
 these Roman fences." 
 
 He passed into the second room. 
 
 This apartment was full of men, who left a nar- 
 row path for the new-comers. Amid the civilians' 
 coats, many uniforms were scattered. Near the 
 door, a group of middle-aged Italians, all in black, 
 were talking apart, with vehement gesticulations: 
 
 "It was time to suspend somebody! For a week 
 the Socialists have prevented all legislation with 
 their howls. . . . Apparently, they'd only just dis- 
 covered that the Camorra was used in Naples to 
 secure his return. . . . And pray what are they 
 themselves interested in, nowadays, but individual 
 intrigues? . . . All the same, my dear friend, the 
 Camorra! That tremendous parasite, which has its 
 roots in the scum of our southern population, while 
 its tentacles climb up to twine about the very foot- 
 stool of authority ..." 
 
 Sebastian Maure escaped the rest of this typically 
 Italian peroration. He approached a crowd of young 
 men at the far end of the room the present-day de- 
 scendants of the "hereditary ruling class." 
 
 "Altogether too thin. . . . Time will remedy 
 that. . . . No time like the present. . . . You 
 should return to La Sorrentina: she w r eighs at 
 least a hundred kilos in her stage costume, which 
 is equivalent to nothing. . . . This little one is 
 rather simpatica, though. What sort of dowry will
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 43 
 
 she have? Did you see her brother's waistcoat? 
 They're making them so in Paris now. . . . And I 
 hear we're all to have velvet cuffs on our dress- 
 coats. . . . Perdinci! My tailor has told me noth- 
 ing about that! . . ." 
 
 In the third room Sebastian Maure found An- 
 dreas Romanovitch, Marchese Tito, and Ernesto 
 Sangallo. 
 
 "Thank Heaven," cried Andreas Romanovitch, 
 his little red eyes sparkling, "here is some one who 
 can settle the question for us!" 
 
 "What question?" 
 
 "Whether we're to have better luck in a future 
 life with the ladies who refuse us a kiss in this one.'* 
 
 "Best to enjoy to-day what may have no exist- 
 ence to-morrow." 
 
 "But when you're refused point-blank?" 
 
 "When you're refused something, why not take 
 it anyway?" 
 
 "A predatory animal, this Sebastian! Do stand 
 to one side, anyhow! With that elephantine shape 
 of yours in the way, a hundred people may have 
 slipped past without my seeing them." 
 
 "No one has gone in lately," volunteered Tito, 
 "but Mme. de Chaumont." 
 
 "Then Don Giulio is probably out of his cave to- 
 night." 
 
 "This sentimental Slav is always putting two and 
 two together!" 
 
 "One and one, you mean." 
 
 " Take care," Sangallo warned him. "Here comes 
 her husband."
 
 44 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Hector de Chaumont joined them, a tall young 
 man of womanish figure, his chin concealed by a 
 fluffy, mouse-colored beard spread out like a fan. 
 His hand-clasp was lifeless. 
 
 "Tito, the girl we saw looking out of the studio 
 window on Mons Tarpeo is Brian Dungannan's 
 model. A peasant from Ariccia. Name, Camilla. 
 When she goes out walking, blind, deaf, and dumb. 
 And how, my dear Andreas, is the adorable Fiam- 
 metta?" 
 
 "My dear Hector, her name isn't Fiammetta any 
 more. It is Poppaea Sabina. And she does noth- 
 ing, lately, but ask me questions about this scoun- 
 drelly Sebastian." 
 
 "Ha, ha! The eternal triangle, dear colleague!" 
 
 "No doubt, dear colleague. Though in her case 
 you might better say, the eternal polygon. To 
 change a painful subject, where shall I find Mme. 
 de Chaumont?" 
 
 "In the ballroom, I think, with little Donna 
 Dora." 
 
 "Ah, that poor child," exclaimed Andreas, winc- 
 ing. "Always in the ballroom, though she can 
 never hope to dance! Always watching while others 
 whirl past, on their strong limbs, in the arms of 
 young men!" 
 
 "Every ill conceals its purpose," said Sangallo, 
 quietly. 
 
 He turned to greet considerately a puerile-looking 
 youth of twenty, with pallid skin, an unsymmetrical 
 face, and a mustache of half a dozen hairs twirled 
 up at the corners of his lips. It was Don Leone,
 
 THE ISLE. OF LIFE 45 
 
 Donna Letizia's son, and the last of the ancient line 
 of the Torquati. 
 
 To Sebastian, the new-comer announced, in a thin, 
 frilling voice: 
 
 "Grandpapa has heard you're in Rome. He told 
 me to ask you to call." 
 
 He referred to old Prince Torquato, an eccentric 
 who lived continually shut up in his palace a 
 dweller in the past, a foe of progress, a woman- 
 hater. 
 
 "Very kind of him. I shall certainly do so." 
 
 "Are you dancing to-night, Leone?" 
 
 "Dancing is so fatiguing. No: I've been watch- 
 ing Miss Bellamy." 
 
 "Norn d'un nom (Tun nom d'un nom!" Andreas 
 ejaculated. "Then she did slip past, after all!" 
 
 He and Tito made off incontinently. Sebastian 
 Maure sauntered into the fourth room. 
 
 Here were more uniforms, clustered round ball- 
 dresses. But in a corner a group in sober garb 
 w r ere talking apart. They were "Blacks," or mem- 
 bers of the Vatican party. Sebastian, as he passed 
 them, heard a big, bony man, with the honest, 
 swarthy ugliness of a Savonarola, pronounce: 
 
 "The number of unbeneficed clergy has risen al- 
 most to seventy thousand, to say nothing of the 
 mass-priests. If they're to live, the Ecclesiastical 
 Fund must allow larger doles. In short, the mini- 
 mum must be raised. ..." 
 
 This was Don Giulio, of the Dukes of Brazzazza. 
 While he was speaking, his large, melancholy eyes
 
 46 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 looked over the heads of his auditors, toward the 
 doorway of the fifth room, through which drifted 
 the music of a waltz. 
 
 Sebastian, smiling to himself, entered the fifth 
 apartment. 
 
 It adjoined the ballroom, and was full of ladies. 
 Donna Letizia was there, her hair, skin, and eyes 
 nearly matched by her costume of pale-brown satin. 
 He saw Lady Glastenwold, remarkable amid all 
 those lily-like women for her fresh country color. 
 But a low voice reached his ear: 
 
 " Tiens, mon ami. ..." 
 
 He turned to meet the inscrutable eyes of the 
 Russian, Mme. Semadeni. 
 
 Her lithesome figure was wrapped in emerald- 
 green; cascades of emeralds were spread on her 
 bosom. An exotic perfume enveloped her; and Se- 
 bastian, as it reached him, remembered vividly other 
 lands and years. He kissed her hand. 
 
 "I was looking for you, gracious lady ever beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 "My dear friend, since you came to Rome you 
 have not looked for me once." 
 
 "As Petronius says, there's a peculiar charm in 
 postponing the finest pleasures." 
 
 "If you think that, then your inner, as well as 
 your outer, self is greatly changed. No: it is just 
 because we've played our parts together in this 
 act, and are destined, now, to some other scenes 
 apart. But often it isn't quite easy to obey the 
 Prompter. ..."
 
 THE ISLE^OF LIFE 47 
 
 "Even when the appearance of one's old co-actor 
 is so changed?" 
 
 " Is it the envelope of the flesh that attracts? You 
 know it's something deeper. Do you remember my 
 ever telling you that you were the sort of man who 
 could always have what he wanted of us others? . . . 
 But of course you're changed! People don't go on 
 destroying themselves without its becoming no- 
 ticeable." 
 
 "My dear Lydia, I lead the life that's most con- 
 genial to me." 
 
 "And when you've killed yourself?" 
 
 "Why, I shall have lived." 
 
 Looking at him intently, she replied: 
 
 "You are not happy, Sebastian." 
 
 "That's easily remedied?" 
 
 Still staring at him, she shook her head. 
 
 "Good-night, my poor friend." 
 
 She turned away. 
 
 He approached two diplomatists. One was say- 
 ing: 
 
 "I needn't ask you what the effect would be, if 
 Austro-Hungarian Bonds were listed on the Bourse. 
 The Vienna market eased for the benefit of Imperial 
 German loans. In the end, French financial re- 
 sources available for German armament. Belle af- 
 faire! In effect, if the French Senate hadn't waked 
 up- 
 
 The other diplomatist, an old gentleman with a 
 rosy, innocent face and dreamy eyes, took Sebastian 
 by the arm. As if vaguely perplexed, he inquired:
 
 48 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Would you say her head was too small for her 
 height? I've seen a superb carved gem, from Pom- 
 peii, with her proportions. But they're rare. They 
 approach the unrealizable ideal " 
 
 "What are you talking about!" the first diplo- 
 matist asked, in amazement. 
 
 " That girl yonder. Miss what's her name? Miss 
 Bellamy." 
 
 He saw her. She was in white, a strand of pearls 
 round her neck, a wreath of white roses in her 
 hair. The exceeding slenderness of her shape seemed 
 somehow belied by a certain delicate fulness of 
 her throat. Indeed, that lovely throat, milk-white, 
 ringed round by the twofold crease called "Venus's 
 collar," appeared to be hinting to him: "It would 
 surprise you to know how much of all this physical 
 reticence is due to fashion. . . ." Her eyes met 
 his. 
 
 She had expected to see him here. Still, she found 
 herself ill prepared for this new encounter of glances. 
 This was due, perhaps, to the fact that Vincent had 
 not yet arrived. 
 
 Ghirlaine turned to Lady Glastenwold, who, as 
 Mrs. Bellamy was again out of sorts, accompanied 
 her. 
 
 "Do you fancy he's had worse news from England? 
 He said eleven. And now it's midnight." 
 
 Lady Maude squeezed her hand. 
 
 "An eternity, when one's in love eh, dear old 
 thing?" 
 
 "Hush!"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 49 
 
 The engagement was not to be announced for 
 a while. 
 
 An Ambassador, fresh from a dinner at the Qui- 
 rinal, wearing the Cordon of Saints Michael and Laz- 
 arus, addressed Miss Bellamy: 
 
 "Not bostonning to-night, Gnadige Fraulein ? Not 
 even the quadrille fleuri? Just as well, perhaps. To 
 throw but one rose would be to sow a crimson field 
 of duels. What do I get if I propose you for the 
 Nobel Peace Prize? Ah when you smile like that, 
 you pay in advance! ..." 
 
 He moved on, scattering compliments, like an old,, 
 bald-headed, highly ornamental bird pecking his way 
 through a flower-garden. 
 
 Many young girls were thereabouts, very prim 
 though richly dressed, with downcast eyes, and lips 
 half afraid to smile at the banal speeches of youths 
 surrounding them. The married ladies, however, 
 seemed like a different race. Exuberant, full of in- 
 tense vitality and temperament, they gave the effect 
 of personalities almost too vivid for modern clothes* 
 Their exquisite Paris dresses were subtly incongru- 
 ous. One regretted that the peplum and the sandals 
 could not be revived for them. 
 
 But they chattered in English a language more 
 used, in some Roman homes, than Italian: 
 
 "Oh, my dear, merely summer-resort acquaint- 
 ances! In town, we don't even bow. . . . And what 
 sort of place is that for August? ... A place where 
 a woman can buy a hat, that's all. . . . Still, they 
 say that two years ago she . . . By the way, he's 
 here to-night. Have you read his latest book?
 
 SO THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Frightful, certainly, but fascinating. . . . And that's 
 the worst of it. The old Sheikh of the Assassins 
 only took people's lives. This man means to murder 
 hope and conscience. . . . And not merely a theo- 
 rist! Do you know what happened when he was in 
 the Caucasus?" 
 
 "Will you take me into the ballroom?" asked 
 Ghirlaine of Andreas Romanovitch, who had just 
 popped up before her. 
 
 "Would I escort the peri Banou into Paradise?" 
 
 He offered his arm, and they passed through a 
 doorway framed with gilded cupids. 
 
 The ballroom, its walls lined with mirrors over- 
 laid by golden arabesques, its high bays adorned with 
 frescoes, was sweet from countless roses. The music 
 had stopped: on the great marble floor a swarm of 
 couples returned to the chairs. In one corner Ghir- 
 laine saw the old Marchesa of Portagialla, Mme. de 
 Chaumont, and, beside the latter, a young girl mo- 
 tionless on a sofa heaped up with cushions. It was 
 Don Giulio's sister, Donna Dora. 
 
 The invalid, small, rather plump, with a dainty 
 aquiline nose and indecisive lips, had the clear pallor 
 of a camelia. Since in all her seventeen years she 
 had never walked, her life had been largely spent 
 with nurses, old folks, and nuns. It was said that she 
 had "a vocation" for the religious life: but her dis- 
 ability prevented her from taking the veil. To-day, 
 her heart remained cloistered in childish piety, gentle, 
 resigned. Yet from time to time there stole into her 
 big black eyes a vague wistfulness.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 51 
 
 T 
 
 But a radiant smile appeared on her face, when she 
 saw Andreas Romanovitch. 
 
 "I've brought a beautiful lady to talk to you," he 
 told her, gayly. 
 
 "But you," she asked him, in a clear young voice, 
 while holding Ghirlaine's hand, "are going to stay 
 too, and tell me funny things?" 
 
 "We're all going to stay till you're tired of us. 
 Here is even Tito, ready to give his imitation of the 
 Colonel and the stupid sentry. We'll keep him till 
 last, though, or you'll be tired at once. But it 
 seemed to me, as we crossed the floor, that we were 
 going to interrupt something interesting. I'll wager 
 the Marechal B runner rose-bush is in bloom at last! " 
 
 "Oh, no. Mme. de Chaumont was only letting 
 me talk about Giulio." 
 
 "You adore that brother of yours!" 
 
 "He is so good!" 
 
 "That," the Marchesa rumbled, benevolently, "is 
 the very best of reasons, my dear." 
 
 A frail, elderly man, with a long white beard and 
 profound eyes, smiled at these words as he passed. 
 
 "Who was that?" Andreas inquired. 
 
 "Eh," chuckled the Marchesa, "an amusing old 
 character! A hermit, a butterfly farmer, a flower- 
 doctor, a mad star-gazer I don't know what ! His 
 name is John Elzevir. He's American-born. He 
 lives out Tivoli way. In my youth, I was actually in 
 love with the man for a week, because he looked like a 
 saint. And saints were a novelty, in the Rome of 
 those days."
 
 52 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "There are lots of them now." 
 
 "I see one who is not," the Marchesa retorted, 
 squinting across the hall. 
 
 Again, Ghirlaine's eyes met the gaze of Sebastian 
 Maure, intelligent, penetrating, frightfully compre- 
 hensive the gaze of a man who sees and appreciates 
 everything in a flash. . . . 
 
 She spread her fan, and let it flutter before her 
 bosom. 
 
 "How is it that a foreigner of his sort is received 
 here?" 
 
 "Because he's exceedingly rich, and belongs to a 
 family that goes back, in its French branch, to the 
 last Crusade. It was a cadet of that house who emi- 
 grated to America in the seventeenth century, and 
 founded the fortune. But surely the Maures are well 
 known in New York?" 
 
 "Not at all. Because this one is the last of them, 
 and has spent nearly all his life in Europe." 
 
 "True," remarked the Marchesa. "He's not a bit 
 like an American." 
 
 "Thank you for that," said Ghirlaine. 
 
 "After all," protested Andreas Romanovitch, 
 "who knows? In my opinion, all that we see is a 
 pose." 
 
 "Such a pose would have to be founded on innate 
 perversity!" 
 
 "Possible. Though even perversity is sometimes 
 a pose. . . ." 
 
 But Ghirlaine heard, close beside her, Lady Glas- 
 tenwold's lowered voice:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 53 
 
 "Buck up, old girl, I've got bad news for you. 
 Lemster's worse; and Vincent is starting north to- 
 night. He's in the gallery at the end of the rooms. 
 Come and bid him good-by. ..." 
 
 Behind the last room, a glass gallery overlooked the 
 gardens which lay behind the palace. There green 
 lamps burned dimly amid potted plants. The out- 
 lines of statues loomed through shadowy foliage. 
 The air was thick with the scent of azaleas and lemon- 
 blossoms. 
 
 In the ballroom, dancing had recommenced. The 
 gallery seemed deserted. But as Lady Maude dis- 
 appeared, Vincent Pamfort came forward. 
 
 He was dressed for the journey. His baggage had 
 gone to the station. He had barely time to catch 
 the Paris Express. 
 
 Their hands met and twined together. At last: 
 
 "So you're leaving me. ... I suppose Maude 
 will follow you, now, after all. ... And I shall be 
 here alone. ..." 
 
 They were silent, looking down, through the glass, 
 at the fountain-basin and gravel paths of the garden, 
 blanched by the starlight. He mused: 
 
 "It's the future that's beginning! To-day I 
 turned in my papers. I'm a soldier no longer. 
 Good old Egypt is done for." 
 
 "And now you'll not even get back to Rome!" 
 
 "I shall soon have to take over everything at 
 home. It's you who must come to me. Come 
 quickly, eh?" 
 
 "To-night it seems as if I were saying good-by 
 to you for a long, long while."
 
 54 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "A week, a day, would be that!" 
 
 "I mean for longer than days and weeks and 
 months." 
 
 He kissed her cold fingers. 
 
 "You're so deliciously different, Ghirlaine! So 
 much less self -reliant ! Almost appealing! And con- 
 sequently, sweeter even than when I fell in love 
 with you." 
 
 "Love weakens one, I think," she answered, low- 
 ering her head. 
 
 He put his hand under her chin, and looked in 
 her eyes. What he seemed to read in them set him 
 to trembling. His breath was short: 
 
 "How wonderful That the goddess has turned 
 to flesh and blood for me You do love me, Ghir- 
 laine!" 
 
 "If love means wanting you very near me, and 
 being afraid to have you go, for fear it'll never be 
 like this again " 
 
 "That's impossible. Nothing can part us now!" 
 He kissed her lips. For an instant she hung back, 
 then, suddenly, clung tight to him. A wave of pas- 
 sion flowed through her, and, as it were, rushed out 
 to him in that kiss. She was amazed at herself. 
 And she amazed him? . . . She leaned against the 
 window, her eyes half-closed, her temples throbbing. 
 She heard him utter: 
 
 "Well, dear, it's good-by." 
 
 "Not that!" 
 
 " Till soon, then. A bientot, you know." 
 
 "A bientot."
 
 THE ISLE. OF LIFE 55 
 
 He released her, paused to look again, de- 
 parted. . . . 
 
 Another moment, and she wanted to call him 
 back, to beg him to stay, or else to go with him. 
 
 "What folly!" she thought. "It's only come to 
 pass as we expected! But the expectation of this 
 is just what has been frightening me?" 
 
 And she felt, as never before, an awe of that future 
 which is always veiled in darkness, which even the 
 brightest optimism only appears to illuminate, but 
 which sometimes a flash of premonition seems to 
 reveal, for an instant, in a form altogether different 
 from that contrived by one's hopes and plans. 
 
 What did the future seem to hold for her to-night? 
 The peace she had dreamed of, in that fresh north- 
 ern land toward which her lover was speeding? 
 The serenity of such affection as he and she had 
 promised each other? The protection of kindness and 
 honor? The security of familiar, congenial places? 
 
 She heard again the low voice of Mme. Semadeni: 
 
 "You are in danger. ..." 
 
 "This is madness!" 
 
 She turned to leave that dim, oversweet gallery, 
 to regain the bright rooms full of people whose minds 
 were occupied with sane thoughts. 
 
 But in front of her the shadowy foliage parted. 
 A tall, bulky figure loomed in the way. The green 
 light of the lamps rested on the one face she did 
 not want to see. 
 
 She stopped short. He remained motionless, look- 
 ing at her.
 
 56 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 With an effort, she recalled her composure. She 
 would not give this moment significance, either by 
 trying to escape it, or by meeting it with any ap- 
 pearance of irritation. 
 
 He said, in tones so natural that they caused her 
 a shock of surprise: 
 
 "You're not dancing to-night, Miss Bellamy?" 
 
 And she tried to respond with her usual amiabil- 
 ity. 
 
 "No. In fact, I'm just leaving." 
 
 He did not move aside. His mask-like counte- 
 nance did not change. But he returned, very cour- 
 teously: 
 
 "I'm sorry for that. I hoped to have another 
 chat with you. A longer one than our first, a year 
 and more ago. But perhaps in all this time you've 
 forgotten me?" 
 
 She had no choice but to carry on his farce. 
 
 "Oh, no: I remember you perfectly, Mr. Maure. 
 Would you mind looking out of the door to see if 
 Lady Glastenwold's in sight?" 
 
 "Why not forget Lady Glastenwold for the mo- 
 ment? She, or some one else, will show up as soon 
 as my luck begins to turn." 
 
 Again she attempted to treat him like any other 
 man. With a laugh, she asked: 
 
 "You believe things depend on chance?" 
 
 "I believe things depend on the way one takes 
 his chances." 
 
 "After all, that's rather abstruse for small talk, 
 don't you think?"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 57 
 
 "Who can be sure what is small talk and what is 
 not? Words often tell us something quite foreign 
 to the subject in hand. In fact, as a general thing, 
 it's only when speech ceases that the truth is re- 
 vealed." 
 
 The waltz music came to them very faintly. It 
 was as if they two were drifting far from everything 
 else in the world. And gradually the feeling per- 
 vaded her that no stranger was standing before her, 
 but some one whom she was about to know to the 
 depths of his heart. 
 
 She made a great effort to avoid that perception, 
 to see, again, his external self alone. Her gaze fixed 
 itself desperately on that marred sardonic visage. 
 She tried to think of some word wherewith to break 
 the silence that was revealing him. But no word 
 came. 
 
 And before her reluctant intuition his physical 
 part began, so to speak, to shred away, and leave 
 his real personality naked. 
 
 She seemed to see a being consumed by flames, 
 that leaped up to take the form of fantastic sins, 
 then died down, to be instantly revived in shapes 
 more monstrous still. They spread round him. 
 They threatened her. They were on the point of 
 wrapping her in their withering heat. And she 
 could not retreat, or cry out for help, or raise before 
 her the shield that had always made her invincible. 
 She remained like one trapped by a conflagration 
 from which there is no escape. . . . 
 
 All at once, she woke from this nightmare with a
 
 58 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 start. The music had ceased. Laughing voices 
 were drawing near. 
 
 How long had that silence endured? A moment, 
 or an eternity? 
 
 He still stood there, motionless, calm, slightly 
 smiling. She heard him say, in the same tone as 
 before : 
 
 "Indeed, that's one reason why men so seldom stop 
 talking. . . ." 
 
 Lady Glastenwold appeared through the foliage. 
 
 "Sorry to keep you waiting here." She recog- 
 nized Sebastian Maure with a chilly nod. "Shall 
 we say good-night to the Campobassi, and cut our 
 stick?" 
 
 As Ghirlaine passed him, he stood aside with a 
 bow. She lowered her eyes, so that he should not 
 discern the fear in them. . . . 
 
 While the motor-car was taking the two women 
 home, turning to Lady Maude she cried, in a voice 
 aquiver with hysteria: 
 
 "I can't stand this place any longer! I'm going 
 to leave!" 
 
 "Ah, my dear, I know how you feel. But unfort- 
 unately, you can't leave Rome just now. I didn't 
 want to tell you up there: I thought you had enough 
 rotten news for the moment. But they telephoned 
 from the hotel that your aunt's down ill in earnest, 
 this time, poor soul! The doctor's been, and he 
 thinks it's influenza. Really, you know, your steam- 
 heated Americans ought to keep out of these cold 
 museums. ."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 59 
 
 But Ghirlaine was thinking of Mme. Semadeni's 
 words : 
 
 " Events descend upon us, of course. Out of what 
 has been, and what is yet to be, they approach like 
 great, slow-moving winged angels, each with his se- 
 cret influence to work. And the wind of their wings 
 sweeps us forward. . . ." 
 
 Toward what?
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 MRS. ALEXANDER BELLAMY endured for a week 
 though not by any means in silence all the historic 
 effects of influenza. Then, sitting up in bed, a clin- 
 ical thermometer stuck rakishly out of one side of her 
 mouth, she informed her physician, her nurse, her 
 maid, and her niece, that she was going to breakfast 
 on sausage and griddle-cakes. 
 
 "You may as well order it, Ghirlaine, because I 
 am bound to have it. The worm will turn. All last 
 night I dreamed of a porterhouse steak and hashed- 
 brown potatoes." 
 
 " She's much better this morning," vouchsafed the 
 doctor. "A little plain, nourishing food " 
 
 "There is no such thing in this country," Mrs. 
 Bellamy retorted. "It has got to be either fallals 
 or slops. As it is, my sausages will probably be 
 dressed up in paper petticoats, and my griddle-cakes 
 covered with cinnamon and zabaione. It's only one 
 more instance of the artificiality of these worn-out 
 civilizations. As for Rome, there's nothing whole- 
 some in it! Even the air is vitiated, as if those 
 old Emperors and other vile creatures had breathed 
 it up long ago. And that reminds me, my child. 
 You've been in the house altogether too much, these 
 last few days. You look pale. Your eyes are get- 
 
 60
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 61 
 
 ting shadowy. I insist on your going out and stay- 
 ing out. Since you enjoy these people, I forbid you 
 to refuse any more of their invitations on my account. 
 To-night you shall go with Donna Letizia to the 
 Spanish Embassy and the opera. What piece are 
 they giving?" 
 
 "Salome" said Ghirlaine Bellamy. 
 
 " Thank Heaven I'm safe in bed!" 
 
 Ghirlaine sent for the motor-car, donned hat and 
 furs, and called at the Grand Hotel. She hoped to 
 find Lady Glastenwold still in. But at ten o'clock, 
 on so fine a day, the Englishwoman was off already 
 on one of those walks that might land her, round 
 luncheon-time, far away in the country. Ghirlaine 
 told the chauffeur to drive into the Borghese Gardens. 
 
 As the motor-car entered the park, she read again 
 Vincent Pamfort's last telegram from England: 
 
 No change. Writing. A bientdt. . . . 
 
 Every morning, some such message came flying 
 through space to reassure her. Never before had 
 she felt a like need. The self-sufficiency which had 
 not once failed her before was perhaps an inheri- 
 tance. 
 
 The late Mr. Bellamy had possessed what is called 
 a "strong character." His tastes, though fastidious, 
 were, for a rich New Yorker, simple. His conscience 
 was quick, his mind religious, his career irreproach- 
 able. He lived with books and works of art, sur- 
 rounded by a small, select, rather staid coterie of
 
 62 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 friends. He had always felt that to be born a Bel- 
 lamy was to find oneself somewhat superior to the 
 usual run. 
 
 Ghirlaine's mother had died soon after bringing 
 her into the world. It was he who had ordered the 
 girl's early outlook on life. She grew up in an envi- 
 ronment at once edifying, sedate, and a trifle dull. 
 Her natural purity, her instinctive conventional de- 
 voutness, had been well defended through those 
 rather colorless years, and, apparently, fixed in her 
 nature for good and all. 
 
 But at Mr. Bellamy's death, she soon issued, as 
 had other girlhood friends before her, into more 
 modern fields. There her name, beauty, and fortune 
 combined to make her welcome. As was inevitable, 
 in an age of international marriages, invitations soon 
 drew her abroad. At last, thanks largely to her ex- 
 ceptional social charm and savoir faire, she had be- 
 come a brilliant figure in the great world on both sides 
 of the Atlantic. 
 
 Yet all the airs of those continental ballrooms, 
 charged, as it were, with a secret, illicit amorousness, 
 had not affected her ideas of love and marriage. She 
 still believed there must be, in this life, but one man 
 for one woman. They two should meet, at last, as 
 if on a wind-swept mountain-top, all the world's 
 ignoble rumors inaudible far below, their souls full of 
 reverence for the God who had brought them heart 
 to heart. 
 
 Time and again, in these regions of cynicism and 
 deceit, she had told herself she would only find that
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 63 
 
 elsewhere. However, she was always returning 
 hither, half reluctant, half eager, the new young mon- 
 daine rejoicing in so much homage, the old Puritan 
 in her vaguely apprehensive of something still un- 
 developed. . . . 
 
 But now, had she not found, after all, in the very 
 midst of Vanity Fair, the road that was going to lead 
 far away, to the serene and scrupulous future she 
 longed for? 
 
 "If only it could have happened six months ago!" 
 
 So her thoughts returned again to Sebastian Maure. 
 
 Hitherto, she had encountered evil only in men 
 held more or less in check by fear of public opinion. 
 That kind could be met with a woman's ordinary 
 weapons of self-defence. But might not such arms 
 prove useless against this one, so notoriously derisive 
 of all convention, so open in his enmity toward re- 
 straint? She felt the incertitude of an amazon, well 
 enough equipped for accepted modes of combat, but 
 suddenly confronted by an antagonist who is going 
 to ignore all rules. 
 
 For she knew that if she stood her ground, if 
 chance kept her here much longer, and perhaps even 
 if she fled, a combat between them was inevitable. 
 
 Once more she tried to believe her apprehensions 
 absurd. She was always surrounded by friends. 
 Even in her moments of solitude, countless normal 
 persons were close at hand. Besides, to-day, in the 
 places where she moved, such a clash of hostile pur- 
 poses could no longer be physical. In this age, a 
 man, of no matter what recklessness, could gain no
 
 64 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 advantage over a woman unless her moral resistance 
 weakened. 
 
 In fact, since her loathing of Sebastian Maure was 
 more intense every day, she ought to regard him with 
 nothing except contempt. 
 
 And she put from her mind a dream of the night 
 before in which she had found herself sinking into a 
 lurid sea, while struggling in his arms. . . . 
 
 Soon her aunt would be well. They would travel 
 north. Everything would be different. . . . 
 
 The motor-car was running along beneath ilex- 
 trees. All at once, Ghirlaine recognized, on the foot- 
 path, Ernesto Sangallo. She halted the automobile. 
 The novelist approached, hat in hand, his white 
 teeth flashing behind his jet-black beard. 
 
 "Fi done, Monsieur! I thought you were always 
 at work by ten." 
 
 "I am working now. When I sighted you, 'he' 
 was just asking, 'But can one find it here?' And 
 'she' was about to answer, 'If you are weak, you 
 may have to seek it elsewhere. But if you are 
 strong, of course, you can find it here." 
 
 While speaking, he looked at her attentively with 
 his large, sympathetic eyes. 
 
 "And now," he added, briskly, "I'm going home 
 to write it all down." 
 
 "Then let me give you a lift." 
 
 "But, dear lady the appearances! You forget 
 we're in Rome." 
 
 "Don't be absurd. As soon as you jump in my 
 car you're on American soil. There we have fewer
 
 THE ISLJE OF LIFE 65 
 
 of the appearances and just as much of the sub- 
 stance." 
 
 "More, much more," he acknowledged, seating 
 himself beside her. "I deplore this attitude that the 
 Latin races force their young folk to assume toward 
 one another. For really, you know, the fault isn't in 
 temperament, but in education, if Italian men have 
 no genuine respect for women. It's the mysterious, 
 the unknown, that is dangerous. What is under- 
 stood no longer disturbs." 
 
 After a moment, she asked: 
 
 "Are you sure that what is understood no longer 
 disturbs?" 
 
 "Certainly. The familiar is never terrifying, for 
 instance." 
 
 "But suppose one's reluctant to familiarize one- 
 self with what is evil?" 
 
 " That would be a mistake. For the minute you've 
 fathomed evil, you perceive that it's not really evil at 
 all." 
 
 The green foliage, touched here and there by a half- 
 veiled marble figure, streamed past on either side. 
 At length, she exclaimed: 
 
 " I can't believe that! Some things, some persons, 
 are bad through and through." 
 
 "Nothing is bad through and through," he re- 
 sponded, quietly. 
 
 Against her will, she pronounced the name she was 
 trying to put from her mind: 
 
 "And, as an example, this Sebastian Maure?" 
 
 Sangallo made no reply.
 
 66 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "You don't answer that!" 
 
 "Not because there's no answer. Only because, if 
 you'll pardon me, I have no right to expose what I 
 seem to see in that heart, to some one who has no 
 interest in its welfare." 
 
 She felt that she had received a subtle, if uninten- 
 tional reproach. 
 
 "At least, in such a beautiful place, we might 
 find another subject. What about your characters, 
 whose conversation I interrupted back there? 'He' 
 had asked, 'Can one find it here?' Find what?" 
 
 "What are we all trying to find?" returned San- 
 gallo. 
 
 "And her answer? That if he was weak, he would 
 have to seek it elsewhere? That if he was strong, he 
 could find it where he was?" 
 
 "Only a truism. The strong eventually find what 
 they seek in their own souls, whatever their environ- 
 ment. The weak may need help from without 
 from other places, or other natures." 
 
 Ahead, the trees parted. A sunlit vista appeared, 
 gold-drenched and indistinct, like a way leading far 
 off to a place of dreams, too nearly perfect to be 
 reality. 
 
 In low tones, she repeated: 
 
 " So it's the weak who must seek it elsewhere. . . . 
 Why did you put that speech in the woman's 
 mouth?" 
 
 "Because through the mouth of a woman so often 
 come to us others truth, hope, salvation." 
 
 She said no more. He, for his part, seemed lost in
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 67 
 
 meditation, while gazing at her with a far-away look 
 in his eyes. The motor-car flashed through the Pin- 
 cian Gate, and slackened speed in the Via Veneto. 
 The white facade of the Hotel Excelsior was in sight. 
 
 Ernesto Sangallo alighted, thanked her, and went 
 away. She returned to the hotel, thinking: 
 
 "Is he, as people say, a visionary? Or has life 
 such meanings, such answers?" 
 
 And she had a shrinkage of moral certainty and 
 pride, a sense of having glimpsed, from a narrow har- 
 bor, a bit of the open sea. . . . 
 
 Indeed, she did not recover fully from these impres- 
 sions till tea-time, when she dropped in at the Palazzo 
 Campobasso. 
 
 It was twilight. On the "noble floor," a servant 
 ushered her into a long room hung with yellowish 
 Venetian brocade and spread with orange-colored 
 Damascus rugs. Near the great carved fireplace, in a 
 haze of cigarette-smoke, several persons were sitting 
 round a tea-table. 
 
 Princess Campobasso came forward, in a clinging 
 house-dress of violet silk, her red hair glinting like 
 metal in the lamplight. Ghirlaine saw, behind her, 
 rising out of the shadows, the fierce mustache of 
 Marchese Tito, and Don Leone's receding forehead. 
 There, too, appeared the soft brown hair and eyes 
 of Donna Letizia Torquato, Mme. de Chaumont's 
 spirituelle thin face, the watchful eyes of little Donna 
 Isotta, Donna Dora in her upholstered wheel-chair, 
 and Lady Glastenwold. 
 
 The Englishwoman's scarlet cheeks bore witness
 
 68 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 to the long jaunt just finished. In that perfumed 
 air, she spread round her a sweet scent of out-of- 
 doors. She made Ghirlaine sit down beside her, 
 squeezing her hand. For Vincent Pamfort's sister, 
 though she had nearly all the true British prejudices, 
 could not help being fond of at least this American 
 girl! 
 
 In a guileless tone, she inquired: 
 
 "Anything new?" 
 
 "No. I called for you this morning." 
 
 "So sorry you didn't show up in time to go along. 
 But then, poor old girl, you'd have balked at fifteen 
 miles, and missed a wonderful day. I tramped half- 
 way to Tivoli, and saw a long white beard floating 
 through the olive-groves, and carne on old Mr. El- 
 zevir, mooning over the hillsides. I suspect when I 
 hove along he was talking to the flowers. At any 
 rate, he told me some remarkable things about them. 
 This evening, it's just a little shocking to see Princess 
 Betty wearing some. As if she had pinned on some 
 little dead creatures that had been very wise and 
 ambitious." 
 
 Princess Campobasso laughed, looked down at her 
 orchids, and glanced at Marchese Tito. 
 
 "There's a horribly unromantic idea!" 
 
 " He's a strange old man, John Elzevir. A recluse,, 
 a teetotaler, a vegetarian " 
 
 "No wine?" asked Tito, in alarm. "No meat?" 
 
 "Not even poulet saute? " piped little Donna Isotta. 
 "Not even tournedos Rossini?" 
 
 "Not even a nice, crispy slice of bacon, my dear."
 
 THE ISL&JOF LIFE 69 
 
 "I see nothing so strange in that," said Mme. de 
 Chaumont, in her soft voice which was always a trifle 
 unsteady. "Many men who are spiritually in- 
 clined- 
 Donna Dora, nodding her small head solemnly, 
 assented: 
 
 "In Lent, my brother always makes magro for the 
 forty days." 
 
 "Oi," exclaimed Tito, shuddering, "that is piety! 
 As for me, when I think of a beefsteak, I must have 
 it! You should have seen us last night or rather, 
 this morning. That Sebastian Maure! Per Bacco, 
 there's an appetite that has my admiration!" 
 
 "That's all he is, your Sebastian Maure an ap- 
 petite," Princess Betty retorted, with the frowning 
 smile of a woman only playing at disapproval. 
 
 "And a terribly perverse one," added Mme. de 
 Chaumont. "Those books of his are like a miasma 
 in a house " She stopped short. Her sensitive 
 face slowly flushed. 
 
 "But," protested Leone, his watery eyes suffused 
 with enthusiasm, " they're literature. They're the 
 What was it Hector said about them? 'The bright 
 key to many long-imprisoned truths." 1 
 
 Donna Letizia regarded her son's weak counte- 
 nance sadly. But Lady Glastenwold exclaimed: 
 
 "Fiddle-dee-dee! They're the key to a lot of 
 wretched things that most of mankind, in civilized 
 countries, have locked up, these days, in the depths 
 of their natures." 
 
 " You're right," Donna Letizia assented. "Nearly
 
 yo THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 every one, I suppose, is more or less susceptible to 
 perverse influences. But the perversities we don't 
 know or think of, that are recalled to our minds or 
 introduced to us, don't tempt us. When you make 
 a bad idea familiar, it's apt to lose its repulsive 
 look. Lord Chesterfield said if men stuck to their 
 own vices things would be vastly better. If men 
 were never tempted to descend below their own 
 natural levels " 
 
 "But, Mamma," said Don Leone, "Sebastian 
 Maure is sincere. He believes in what he writes." 
 
 "And practises what he believes," interjected 
 Princess Betty. "When he says one should take 
 what he wants, he doesn't stop there! That affair 
 in the Caucasus " 
 
 Glancing at Donna Dora, she paused. 
 
 "By the way, how did that come out?" 
 
 "Well, of course, if it's true it was shocking. But 
 thrilling, too. They say that as soon as the convent 
 could send out an alarm, he was chased through the 
 mountains by the father, the fiance, and a swarm of 
 retainers. No doubt all covered with bandoliers, 
 and daggers, and so on! There was a running fight 
 between the two parties. He got away, and worked 
 down to the Caspian. They were looked for at every 
 port. But unlimited money will do anything. In 
 the end, or so the story goes, Persia swallowed them 
 up." 
 
 "And what has become of her?" 
 
 "Who knows? I must ask Mme. Semadeni. 
 She's lived in the Caucasus."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 71 
 
 " Teh, tchl " Tito shook his head, and helped him- 
 self to a buttered muffin. "I don't believe all that 
 stuff. It's too deuced spectacular. We're in the 
 twentieth century, now. Or is it the nineteenth? I 
 can never remember." 
 
 "The twentieth century," said Donna Letizia, 
 "only extends to the borders of civilization." 
 
 "And you know, Mamma," Don Leone suggested, 
 slyly, "that even on Italian soil, when one gets down 
 south, where Tito comes from " 
 
 "Eh?" the Sicilian blurted out, after bolting a 
 mouthful of muffin. "Miss Bellamy, I leave it to 
 you are these Romans narrow? Within five kilo- 
 metres in fact, just outside their marvellous city 
 you'll find human beings living in caves in the side of 
 a hill." 
 
 "But in Sicily!" chuckled Don Leone, wriggling 
 with delight. " In Sicily, some of them haven't come 
 down on the ground. Grandpapa used to tell a story 
 of a whole family, of four generations, who lived in a 
 chestnut- tree. The old ones still wore little tails." 
 
 "Prince Torquato has his own sense of humor. 
 Sicily is like anywhere else. Only, in many respects, 
 much better." 
 
 "A lonely, wild, lawless waste!" 
 
 " Travel. It may broaden your mind." 
 
 " A place where anything might happen ! Another 
 Caucasus!" 
 
 "Another Paradise!" 
 
 "Then why are you up here?" 
 
 Tito risked a sidelong glance at Princess Betty, 
 and twirled his mustache. She remarked :
 
 72 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "My dear Leone, soldiers can't always be where 
 they'd like." 
 
 "Why did he become a soldier, then?" 
 
 Tito, leaning forward, replied, as ferociously as 
 possible : 
 
 "Because I love the sight of blood! Because I 
 dote on carnage!" 
 
 A new voice was heard : 
 
 "Could you guarantee us a little carnage on 
 Thursday? Perhaps you'll remember we haven't 
 killed for a week." 
 
 It was Don Livio Campobasso. Tall, immaculate, 
 cool, his eye-glass flashing, he joined the circle. Sit- 
 ting down, he whispered mysteriously in his daugh- 
 ter's ear. The child's face shone with a smile of 
 pride. She got down from her chair, and prepared 
 his tea-cup. 
 
 Princess Betty had one of those slight facial con- 
 tractions which betray a yawn smothered as soon as 
 begun. Her husband turned to Ghirlaine: 
 
 "You're coming out this week, I hope? I fancy 
 the fine weather's set. We shall have a big field." 
 
 "Yesterday," said Tito, frowning at his sword-hilt 
 like a man of affairs, "I sold a vast brute of a hunter 
 to Maure." 
 
 "Good Heavens! Must the conversation always 
 slip round to him?" 
 
 "As I'm not overfond of his company," Lady 
 Glastenwold remarked, "I'm off. Besides, I've 
 Brian Dungannan coming to dinner." 
 
 "The sculptor? Isn't he rather original?" 
 
 " Delightf ully so. But not in the Maurian sense
 
 THE ISLE- OF LIFE 73 
 
 of the word. However, I'm planning to have three 
 chaperons. If you think a woman of my looks really 
 needs them." 
 
 "Is he going to marry his model, that peasant 
 
 girl?" 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder. If it occurred to him some 
 day." 
 
 "Rather breezy, your dinner-guest!" 
 
 "You wouldn't understand till you knew him. 
 Quite illuminating, his point of view." 
 
 "Another bright key to many long-imprisoned 
 truths?" 
 
 " Good-by. Coming, Ghirlaine? Thanks so much 
 for the muffins. ..." 
 
 Ghirlaine took Lady Maude to the Grand Hotel, 
 and went home to dress. 
 
 That evening, she dined at Mme. de Chaumont's 
 pretty villino near the Porta Pia. 
 
 De Chaumont had a good deal of money. He in- 
 sisted on hospitality of a tone which made it rather 
 doubtful whether his family tree was as well-rooted 
 as he pretended in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. 
 The dinner-table, decorated with Parma violets and 
 white lilacs, was laden with Venetian glassware and 
 candle-sticks of carved gold. The menu proved to 
 be somewhat too long. Most of the courses were 
 composed of viands brought from a distance. The 
 wines were exceptionally expensive. De Chaumont 
 thought all this very smart. 
 
 His wife, who loved simplicity, and was not in 
 sympathy with half the guests, could hardly have
 
 74 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 seemed more amiable. She even charred the end of 
 a cigarette, to give countenance to those ladies who 
 wanted to smoke. 
 
 Ghirlaine sat between an officer of the German 
 Emperor's Gardes du Corps, and the Chinese charge 
 d'affaires. The latter was a delicate, owlish courtier 
 with shaven forehead, resplendent in mauve and 
 apricot-colored silks. In fluent French, from which 
 not even the "r's" were lacking, he discussed ship- 
 wrecks, Machiavelli, the Futurist School in painting. 
 He admired the Futurists for one thing. With them, 
 the nude was taboo, since the nude was no longer 
 incidental to daily life. 
 
 To this, de Chaumont, with an exceedingly arch 
 expression, was about to reply, when Mme. Berthe 
 gave the signal to rise. It was after nine o'clock. 
 Ghirlaine and Donna Letizia Torquato said good- 
 night. They were bound for the reception of the 
 Spanish Ambassador, and, later, the opera. 
 
 In the ample, gilded apartments of the Spanish 
 Embassy, perhaps a hundred persons, on their way 
 to the opera-house or dances, had already arrived. 
 The anterooms were full of footmen in the orange- 
 and-red Royal liveries of Spain. Beyond, the same 
 long vistas appeared: high walls lined with tapestries, 
 marble floors reflecting the light, ceilings covered 
 with vivid legs and arms, glitter, vastness, formality. 
 And the same diplomatic and military uniforms were 
 collecting there, beneath the baroque chandeliers; the 
 same smiles and bows were beginning; the same cross- 
 glances and surreptitious contacts were in prepara-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 75 
 
 tion; the same words of scandal, of destructive in- 
 nuendo, and of betrayal, were ready to do their work. 
 . . . Ghirlaine was glad when Donna Letizia sug- 
 gested that the opera must have commenced. Once 
 more on the staircase, she drew a deep breath, as if 
 she had escaped from infected air. . . . 
 
 "What is the matter with me?" she thought, 
 almost angrily, pulling her fur cloak about her with 
 a shiver. "It seems that I can no longer see any- 
 thing normally! ..." 
 
 Outside the Palazzo Barberini they secured, from 
 the tangle of vehicles, the old, boat-like carriage, 
 drawn by a pair of those gigantic horses affected by 
 the Torquato family. To a clatter of hoofs, they 
 set out for the Costanzi. 
 
 Before the theatre, the carriage rumbled into an 
 empty porte-cochere. The late-comers, entering, 
 had their ears assailed by a harsh, discordant blare. 
 The opera was in full blast. 
 
 An usher had opened the door of Donna Letizia's 
 box, when a voice was heard behind them, raised in 
 profane soliloquy. Down the corridor came Andreas 
 Romanovitch, at a shambling trot, smiting his brow 
 with a hand on which glittered some preposterous 
 rings. 
 
 " Ghastly form of wit ! Frightful ingenuity ! The 
 worst of it is, it really looks like me!" 
 
 The Russian perceived them. He stopped short. 
 His eye-glass dropped. His forked beard sagged 
 down. 
 
 "What looks like you, Monsieur Tchernaieff?" 
 laughed Donna Letizia.
 
 76 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Parbleu, the head on the charger! I've just been 
 behind the scenes and examined it. Take my word, 
 the features are much too like to be so by accident. 
 Some one's been playing a joke on me. What's 
 more, I know whose wretched, sardonic humor I 
 suspect!" 
 
 "Who is the Salome to-night?" 
 
 "Fiammetta Innocenti." 
 
 "Come in with us, and see what she's doing." 
 
 "Please excuse me! I watched the last rehearsal. 
 Such relish, in such a part, is too terrifying for me. 
 I advise you to turn round and let me take you 
 home." 
 
 "Later, perhaps." 
 
 "Have your way. But you will suffer!" 
 
 He disappeared. Donna Letizia and Ghirlaine 
 entered the box. 
 
 Round the darkened auditorium, the three tiers of 
 boxes, and the two galleries above, bore up innumer- 
 able vague faces. Against the green rim of foot- 
 lights, the conductor's arms moved rhythmically. 
 
 On the stage, before the moonlit palace of Herod, 
 Salome was singing in the ear of John the Baptist. 
 One saw a blonde, pallid creature, crimson-mouthed, 
 of a snake-like suppleness, clad in a transparent robe 
 that seemed little more than moonbeams. She ap- 
 proached the ragged saint, then shrank away, with 
 provocative gestures, diabolically ingenious and 
 graceful. Her thin voice, acrid with the timbre of 
 hysteria, sounded strange depths of emotional per- 
 versity. She was not a woman, but the personifica- 
 tion of eroticism, harassing purity.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 77 
 
 "I will kiss your lips, lokanaan. ... I will kiss 
 your lips. ..." 
 
 Ghirlaine shuddered. From the stage was wafted 
 forth, on those wellnigh intolerable waves of sound, 
 a disordered sensuality. This influence approached 
 her, enveloped her, recalled to her another influence 
 that it resembled that had enwrapped her, one 
 night, in the shadowy palm-gallery of the Palazzo 
 Campobasso. 
 
 And the feeling stole over her that somewhere, in 
 this breathless audience, his eyes, and thoughts, were 
 fixed on her again. 
 
 She made out, in a near-by box, Princess Campo- 
 basso's tense figure, and behind her Tito's eyes di- 
 lated in bewilderment. Farther on, she saw Don 
 Leone's open mouth, and Hector de Chaumont's face, 
 full of somnolent delight. At a distance sat Mme. 
 Semadeni. She was not looking at the singer, but 
 at something, or some one, straight across the the- 
 atre, lost in the gloom. 
 
 Whom was she staring at so curiously? 
 
 But Mme. Semadeni was looking now at Ghirlaine.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHEN the curtain fell, Sebastian Maure left his 
 seat, went back to the end of the first-tier corridor, 
 and descended upon the stage. 
 
 Herod's palace was tumbling apart. The gilt 
 cuirasses of the Tetrarch's guard were disappearing 
 into the wings. Mechanics in long, dirty blouses 
 swarmed everywhere. 
 
 The intruder, with the assurance of one who has 
 paid his way, passed behind the back drop, climbed 
 a staircase, and knocked on a shabby door. Inside, 
 a little dog raised a falsetto bark. 
 
 "Avanti!" 
 
 He entered Salome's dressing-room. 
 
 The place was brilliantly lighted, small, and hot. 
 At a disorderly toilet-table sat Fiammetta Innocenti, 
 her wig off, a towel round her neck, her face covered 
 with a mixture of make-up and olive-oil. Behind 
 her, a short fat woman was whisking out of the way 
 a tiny Florentine dog, pale-yellow, shaved like a 
 poodle. But the beast continued to yelp at him 
 spasmodically. 
 
 To this greeting the singer added a scream of her 
 own, when she saw who was there: 
 
 " Get out ! How dare you ! " 
 
 "I never let people change their minds at my ex- 
 pense." 
 
 78
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 79 
 
 He sat down on a trunk, picked up an atomizer, 
 and sprayed his chin with verveine. She glanced at 
 him keenly, then shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 He had drunk too much with his dinner. Just 
 now, however, his mind was rather more active than 
 usual. But this activity was veiled by his customary 
 impassive manner. Even so expert a student of 
 mankind as the Innocenti was baffled. 
 
 "I thought," she confessed, while rubbing her 
 cheeks with the towel, "that it was Andreas. Or 
 Marchese Tito. Or the Director." 
 
 "Why every one else, but not me?" 
 
 "Because I have grease all over my face." 
 
 "I've seen that before, somewhere or other." 
 
 "Not here." 
 
 "There always has to be a first time." 
 
 "I differ." 
 
 But she smiled at herself in the mirror. He failed 
 to respond to that. 
 
 "You prefer olive-oil, I see, in this incarnation? 
 When you were Poppaea Sabina, you know, it was 
 asses' milk. There were five hundred of them, shod 
 with silver and covered with nets of Tyrian purple. 
 They ambled behind your carriage when you and 
 Nero junketed down to Baia." 
 
 "What nonsense! There's not enough grease in 
 asses' milk to take off paint." She added, hi the 
 rough Neapolitan dialect: 
 
 "Wine for dry throats, bread for flat stomachs, the 
 gallows for fools and grease for make-up!" 
 
 "I suspect that saying, in its original form, belongs 
 to the Camorra."
 
 8o THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Perhaps," she replied, indifferently. "If, in- 
 deed, there is such a thing any more." 
 
 This remark he had heard delivered solemnly by 
 more than one desperate character in the south, bent 
 on amusement at the expense of a foreigner. It sug- 
 gested to Sebastian that the Innocenti herself might 
 have been mixed up, at some time or other, with the 
 "Beautiful Reformed Society." That would hardly 
 be surprising. The Camorra had members in nearly 
 every walk of life, from the gutter to the Chamber 
 of Deputies. And this singer had been born in the 
 slums of Naples. 
 
 She was one of those rare products of the depths 
 whom ambition predestines to an extraordinary ca- 
 reer. Her natural talent had been helped by her 
 strangely unplebeian good looks. Her intelligence 
 had taken advantage of every chance for self-better- 
 ment. With all this, she had a reputation for abso- 
 lute cynicism. At least one young man had at- 
 tempted her life, and then killed himself, because she 
 had used him long enough. 
 
 "Where is Andreas to-night?" she inquired, while 
 powdering her throat. 
 
 She had quickly resumed her habitual attractive- 
 ness. Despite her history, she displayed a face of 
 peculiar innocence large-eyed, clear-browed, almost 
 childlike. Only her lips were a trifle too full. As 
 Sebastian Maure had said, she resembled the bust 
 of Nero's wife in the Uffizzi Gallery. 
 
 "I haven't seen Andreas this evening. Maybe 
 he's noticed the head on the charger, and gone home 
 to sulk."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 81 
 
 "Why did you do that? I can't see the point." 
 
 "He'll see it, though." 
 
 "But it isn't necessary to kill Andreas, in order to 
 kiss him." 
 
 "All the same, there's a certain resemblance." 
 
 Steps sounded outside the door. At that moment, 
 she sneezed: perhaps some powder had flown up her 
 nose. But Sebastian recalled the old signal of cau- 
 tion used by the Camorristi. By way of reply, he 
 imitated the mew of a cat, which meant, in the same 
 code, "Here comes the victim." She turned round 
 in amazement. He was still grinning at her when in 
 marched Andreas, Tito, and de Chaumont. 
 
 " Wretched fumiste!" the Russian shouted at Se- 
 bastian Maure. "When that head appeared out of 
 the well, all the Hunt Club box rolled round on their 
 chairs. The scene was spoiled. I presume you're 
 here to apologize?" 
 
 Looking at Fiammetta askance, he added, re- 
 flectively: 
 
 "If not, what the devil is he doing in this galley?" 
 
 "Are these gentlemen your seconds?" inquired 
 Sebastian. 
 
 "Many, many thanks! I'll wait till your hand 
 and eye are more unsteady. Life may be all sorts of 
 a bore; but I know some pleasanter ways of with- 
 drawing from it." 
 
 The Innocenti gazed at Sebastian Maure. 
 
 "Have you killed many men in duels?" she asked 
 him. Her red lips parted in almost infantile antici- 
 pation. Andreas growled:
 
 82 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "To look at him you might know he's smashed 
 each of the Ten Commandments into bits. It's the 
 grief of his life that there aren't but ten to break. 
 He has a grudge against Moses on that account." 
 
 "Sacrilege!" Fiammetta declared, and turned 
 grave. Andreas, for his part, looked startled. 
 
 "So it is," he assented, in humble tones. "And I 
 ask pardon of God." 
 
 "Good," exclaimed Fiammetta. "And now, get 
 out at once, all of you, and let me dress." 
 
 "Is it absolutely necessary to be so cruel?" asked 
 de Chaumont, simpering. 
 
 "Naturally. You can see for yourself that while 
 you're in here there's no room." 
 
 Sebastian stood up. 
 
 "Poppaea, you're coming with us to supper." 
 
 It was less an invitation than a command. She 
 looked at him in astonishment; her eyes flashed; then 
 an expression of pleasure touched her face. No 
 doubt she found it a new experience to be ordered 
 about by a man. But, immediately recovering her- 
 self, she began to make conditions: 
 
 "Any more women?" 
 
 "Why should there be?" 
 
 "Then I accept if I may eat garlic." 
 
 "We'll all eat garlic," de Chaumont assured her, 
 with his hand on his heart. 
 
 "That won't be necessary, Monsieur," she re- 
 torted, and slammed the door. . . . 
 
 The Regina was a restaurant the real life of which 
 began round midnight. Inside the vestibule, a door
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 83 
 
 on the left gave access to a long room where one 
 might sup surrounded by officers, actresses, young 
 nobles, and demi-mondaines. But those who pre- 
 ferred seclusion passed this door by, traversed a dark 
 alley covered with trellises, and found, toward the 
 rear of the building, aligned against the exterior wall, 
 a row of cabinets particuliers. In one of these, Se- 
 bastian Maure ensconced his party. 
 
 Fiammetta, who had not dined before singing, was 
 hungry. They ate an Italian meal a soup of mul- 
 let, lobster, cuttle-fish, whiting, and mussels; red 
 mushrooms stewed in oil, tomatoes and garlic; suck- 
 ing-goat in a sauce of chillies and anchovies, and a 
 salad of white truffles from Piedmont. But every 
 one drank with each course whatever he liked. The 
 wine-bottles and liqueur-flasks formed a phalanx on 
 the table. 
 
 Smoke filled the air. The Innocenti, who had to 
 choose between hoarseness and masculine resent- 
 ment, resigned herself to the former. 
 
 The room boasted a large oil-painting of a nymph, 
 a sofa, and a piano. Andreas, sitting down at this 
 instrument, dashed off the first bars of a scherzo. 
 But no two octaves were in tune. A groan rose from 
 his audience. Tito dragged him off the piano-stool. 
 
 "Che porcheria what a mess!" 
 
 "No fault of mine," Andreas replied. "In fact, I 
 think this is the very machine that Leone filled with 
 Asti spumante" 
 
 " Leone will never grow up if he lives to a hundred.'* 
 
 "He'll surprise every one if he lives to thirty!"
 
 84 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "What could you expect of a house that's been too 
 proud for five hundred years to marry beneath it? 
 The old Prince is crazy. Donna Letizia's husband 
 used to chase the family priest round the table. This 
 boy's making haste to kill himself before he dies of 
 neurasthenia. One has to pity his mother. She's 
 good stock; but they let her into the Casa Torquato 
 too late to save the line. In fact, that family is in 
 the puree." 
 
 "And the Brazzazzi? If they're to continue, Don 
 Giulio will have to look sharp." 
 
 " Oh, no house can be called extinct while the dis- 
 taff side remains." 
 
 "Donna Dora? One doesn't marry an invalid, no 
 matter how big her dowry. Any man her equal in 
 rank would want also a healthy mother. One always 
 thinks of the children. It's human nature." 
 
 Thus Tito. But Fiammetta corrected him: 
 
 "Princes think of them beforehand because 
 they have something fine to leave them." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Andreas, "some, of us have too 
 much affection for our unborn children to wish them 
 the tragedy of becoming our heirs." 
 
 The Innocenti protested: 
 
 11 Car o mio, if you intend to take life seriously again 
 to-night, I'm going home to Ki-ki. Santa Eufemia 
 Vergine deliver me hereafter from a man with a 
 conscience!" 
 
 ' ' Hereafter ! ' ' Andreas turned to Sebastian. ' ' My 
 poor friend, she says to my face that I'm only an ep- 
 isode."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 85 
 
 Sebastian glanced at Fiammetta. She was lean- 
 ing forward, her elbows on the table, her polished 
 finger-nails curled up under her full, round chin. 
 Her eyes were fixed on him with a sort of blank> 
 misty speculation. And there flashed between them 
 two looks, more subtle than question and answer 
 the swift intercourse of two natures that recognize 
 each other. ... But instantly, he made his eyes 
 illegible. She straightened herself, almost angrily, 
 with a flush, like one who has had an unaccustomed, 
 and unexpected, rebuff. 
 
 Sebastian replied to Andreas: 
 
 "Eh, we're all episodes! Though few have cour- 
 age enough to admit it. Take more champagne. 
 The churches will all be open again to-morrow. . . . 
 Three hundred and fifty churches, basilicas, and 
 cathedrals, with little episodes running in and out of 
 them! Wait a minute, though! The marriages 
 aren't so ridiculous, after all!" 
 
 Throwing back his head, he uttered a harsh, bark- 
 ing laugh. Fiammetta involuntarily crossed herself. 
 
 His hour for outrageous conversation had nearly 
 struck. The Innocenti, perceiving this, looked round 
 for her furs. She could stand everything but blas- 
 phemy. Besides, she was trembling with the sup- 
 pressed indignation of a woman who has been 
 tempted to make an advance in vain. 
 
 But, when she rose, he did not try to detain her. 
 For he had already reached the conclusion he had 
 been seeking, and on account of which he had asked 
 her to supper.
 
 86 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "I, too," stammered Andreas. "Some one must 
 see her home." 
 
 "And I, with a wretched headache," added de 
 Chaumont, trying to catch Fiammetta's eye. 
 
 Tito muttered something about an early ride with 
 Sangallo. 
 
 "Good-night, then. And tell the waiters not to 
 disturb me." 
 
 "You'll stay by yourself?" 
 
 "Isha'n'tbelonely." 
 
 He waved them out, his big hands beating the air 
 as if to disperse them with the smoke. As they left, 
 he heard Fiammetta whisper, with an accent of spite : 
 
 "No doubt he means the Devil will keep him 
 company. ..." 
 
 When their footsteps had died away, he gave vent 
 to an exclamation of disgust. 
 
 "Pouah! To think I expected to be satisfied 
 again " 
 
 He emptied his glass, leaned back in his chair, and 
 reflected. 
 
 For a week, he had thought of nothing but Ghir- 
 laine Bellamy. The remembrance of her had filled 
 his sleep with dreams. Out of doors, at twilight, tall 
 women's shapes, flitting through the shadows, had 
 called up recollections of hers. To-night, while 
 watching her in the Costanzi, his desire for her had 
 seemed insupportable. 
 
 Yet her antipathy made her heart as nearly inac- 
 cessible as if she lived in another world. Before her 
 nobility, for the first time in his life his self-confidence
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 87 
 
 failed him. He had even been tempted to smother 
 the thought of her in other experiences, susceptible 
 to his influence. But, on approaching this venture, 
 he had realized that nothing else would do now. It 
 was not perversity that he wanted, but her white self, 
 that hated him. 
 
 "I've never failed yet, in anything I set my hand 
 to. Something will happen. Presently I shall find 
 the answer. ..." 
 
 Thus he continued to search his mind, fumy with 
 the haphazard ingenuities of intoxication. 
 
 "It will come to me. If only I can remember it in 
 the morning. ..." 
 
 But in the morning he recalled distinctly nothing 
 that had followed except a dream, in which he had 
 seemed to be dragging her down from a great height, 
 into black waves. . . . 
 
 Lying abed, he concluded that he had reached the 
 most intense emotional crisis of his life. He was sure 
 that his future was going to be profoundly affected 
 by her. And he was convinced that hers would not 
 be unchanged. For he believed that no one is at- 
 tracted to another so strongly unless the two have 
 something vital in common. He felt that she must 
 contain, in the depths of her nature, some very im- 
 portant quality sympathetic to him. 
 
 How to discover it? 
 
 He enjoyed an almost clairvoyant perception of 
 human nature, up to the point where its higher life 
 began. Moreover, those who held that the feminine 
 is mysterious had earned, hitherto, nothing but his
 
 SS THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 amusement. Yet there was no doubt that this girl 
 still puzzled him. 
 
 "After all, every problem is merely a question of 
 patience." 
 
 His intellect, his physical strength which was ex- 
 ceptional and his wealth, had always been taxed in 
 the interests of perversity. Some men are fated to 
 wander through life as if through endless subterra- 
 nean vaults, whose high windows are sealed against 
 the sunshine. Sometimes these sealed casements 
 never open. 
 
 "That face of a young saint, and that figure of 
 Diana squeezed into a costume from the Place Ven- 
 dome! Curious mutual concession. ..." 
 
 He stopped talking to himself. His valet was 
 standing beside the bed. 
 
 This servant was small and wiry, with a visage 
 that seemed to have been carved out of wood and 
 then covered with dark wax. He was usually taken 
 for a Turkoman or a Tartar. In his passports he 
 went by the Greek name, Disnisius Pappachzistos. 
 He spoke several languages, knew many countries, 
 and whether in Paris or Bokhara made no difficulty 
 of the most unusual commissions. 
 
 Sebastian Maure, ten years before, in St. Peters- 
 burg, had dragged him out of a wardrobe in the 
 Hotel d'Europe. At that time, the fellow had pos- 
 sibly been, as he declared, a hotel spy of the Russian 
 Secret Service. If so, he had thrown over this berth 
 to follow a master whose prodigality and advent- 
 urous habits had made his old post appear unprofita-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 89 
 
 ble and tame. Not long afterward, in the Caucasus, 
 Sebastian Maure had saved his life, because "it 
 would be too tiresome to break in a new numskull." 
 From that day, the man had been like a slave. 
 
 Sebastian sat down in a brocaded arm-chair. The 
 valet, dashing some toilet-water into a silver mug, 
 mixed a lather. Presently, when the razor was run- 
 ning over his throat, Sebastian remarked: 
 
 "It's some little time since you have been home, 
 Disnisius." 
 
 "Many years, master," replied the servant, re- 
 spectfully. 
 
 "Your native place is still Balikisri, in Asia 
 Minor?" 
 
 "Why should I lie to you, master? You are my 
 father and mother." 
 
 "Balikisri, eh? Near Constantinople? What is 
 there?" 
 
 "Hills, a river, houses, dogs, men, and women. 
 And much dirt." 
 
 "So you are never homesick?" 
 
 "Oh, I shall go back some day." 
 
 "If it's a girl, she would be rather ugly by this 
 time." 
 
 "It is not a girl. Only an enemy, Excellency." 
 
 Sebastian yawned with care. 
 
 "You leave him alone so long he'll forget you." 
 
 The man made no reply at once. Finally, poising 
 the razor: 
 
 "He will hardly forget me, Excellency. Every 
 month I send him a letter, telling him I am coming
 
 90 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 back some day. Meanwhile, he is growing rich. 
 When he's as rich as he can be, I will go home." 
 
 As the razor was passing the jugular vein, he 
 added: 
 
 "What use, to have killed him when he had noth- 
 ing? To kill him when he has everything to lose is 
 much better." 
 
 Sebastian felt his lips twitching. 
 
 "You will make me laugh, Disnisius, and then you 
 will cut me." 
 
 "Laugh if you wish to, master. I shall not cut 
 you," said Disnisius in a gentle voice. 
 
 "A most satisfactory servant," thought Sebastian. 
 Aloud: 
 
 "You may take the rest of those cravats we got at 
 Doucet's last Fall." 
 
 "The rest?" 
 
 "The ones you haven't already stolen." 
 
 "Many thanks, master," murmured Disnisius, 
 shutting the razor. "Shall I lay out a braided coat 
 for this afternoon?" 
 
 "I'm going to call on a sculptor of genius. What 
 regalia does your varied experience suggest?" 
 
 " Ah, then it would doubtless be tweeds. And per- 
 haps a mauve tie. I say mauve, because there will 
 be more color in your Excellency's face, when your 
 Excellency has had some Burgundy with his break- 
 fast. Massage?" 
 
 "Certainly. And be quick about it." 
 
 But two o'clock had struck before he was ready to 
 go out.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 91 
 
 He told the cab-driver to take him to Mons Tar- 
 peo, on the Capitol Hill. There, midway of a street 
 pent in by yellow walls, he entered a big, shabby 
 house, and climbed four flights of stairs to Brian 
 Dungannan's [studio. 
 
 The large room was flooded with sunshine that 
 streamed through a skylight. One saw wooden 
 chairs, a threadbare divan, and many plaster casts. 
 A young man in a blouse was at work on a life-sized 
 marble statue, which he was pretending to file round 
 the ankles. He had curly red hair, honest eyes, of 
 emerald-green, slightly inflamed by marble-dust, and 
 a broken nose awry amid many freckles. He was 
 grumbling in Italian: 
 
 "Make them thinner, says the old imbecile. I 
 will not make them thinner by so much as a milli- 
 metre! But she's thin herself, says he: if her ankles 
 are not, that's her fault. Stupido! Her ankles are 
 much more beautiful so than spindling. Now they 
 speak of a life afoot. The spring of grass under the 
 heel from morning till night. The rush of clean air 
 round the body. Camilla, if your ankles got spin- 
 dling, I should pack you off home to Ariccia!" 
 
 He nodded severely at the statue. 
 
 It portrayed a tall, slim maiden halting between 
 two steps, head up, in a splendid attitude of alarm. 
 There was something fay-like about both face and 
 figure the look of a wild thing taking fright, the 
 pure naturalness of untrammelled muscles contract- 
 ing for headlong escape. 
 
 When this almost vital creation remained unre-
 
 92 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 sponsive, the sculptor recollected himself, looked 
 over his shoulder, and repeated : 
 
 "You hear, Camilla? Home like a shot!" 
 
 And he laughed at a handsome, long-limbed girl 
 who sat in a corner, demurely knitting, the sun on her 
 copper-colored hair. 
 
 Near by, smiling also, lounged Ernesto Sangallo. 
 
 Then they saw Sebastian Maure in the doorway. 
 
 When he had examined and praised the statue, he 
 scrutinized the original. 
 
 He had heard of this peasant girl from the Alban 
 village famed for its pretty women. She came of a 
 family of artists' models. A year before, she had 
 knocked on Dungannan's door, in her search for 
 work. She was still here. 
 
 Her face was grave and sweet, with the artlessness 
 of very simple, almost aboriginal natures some- 
 thing decidedly different from the apparent artless- 
 ness of the usual Italian peasant. 
 
 Dungannan remarked, in English: 
 
 "Now you see what I've tried to reproduce. Here 
 and there, in this country, you'll find an individual 
 that all the slave-hordes of ancient Rome, all the 
 rabble of barbarian conquerors, hasn't adulterated. 
 This one is the double of her first native ancestress, 
 who prostrated herself, in the fields, before some 
 unusual-looking stone, that represented her idea of 
 divinity. She belongs to the age of centaurs, and 
 fauns, and satyrs. She's one of the rarest, most 
 precious things in the world and I love her for it! 
 Some day, I suppose I shall have to marry her,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 93 
 
 more's the pity! Like plucking a dryad out of her 
 nest, and haling her up to strange altars! It seems 
 much more appropriate that we should just go away, 
 hand in hand, into the woods forever." He turned 
 again to Sebastian. "Have you ever thought of 
 going away with some one into the woods forever? 
 Most people would consider that sad. They're 
 wrong. Everything is there. The nearer we ap- 
 proach the primitive, the plainer we see." 
 
 Sebastian contemplated them both, clear-eyed and 
 frank in the sunshine, radiant with an inexplicable 
 serenity. And suddenly he felt jealous. For this 
 was a new sort of lawlessness, so innocent that none 
 could reproach them for it, that few could help 
 envying them. They seemed to belong to the youth 
 of the world, to a time when there was no right or 
 wrong. 
 
 "I think," he said, "you two, if any, ought to find 
 your old gods in the forest. Though even the most 
 liberal theologians have pronounced them all dead." 
 
 : " Are the old gods dead?' " quoted Brian Dungan- 
 nan. "'Not they; but maybe they think we are!" 
 
 "He's a pagan," declared Sangallo, regarding the 
 sculptor affectionately. 
 
 "I've been called that, too," Sebastian Maure re- 
 plied, somewhat grimly. "In my case the term is 
 abusive." 
 
 "Every man has his own interpretation of words. 
 That depends on how far his search has progressed." 
 
 "Search for what?" asked Sebastian, who felt in 
 the mood for hostilities.
 
 94 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "For what we're all hunting, some with open eyes, 
 some blindly. Old John Elzevir, out toward Tivoli, 
 is searching among his bees and his flowers. The 
 poor wretch in the Trastevere quarter, who'll do a 
 murder to-night, is searching no less, though he 
 doesn't know it." 
 
 "One moment 
 
 But Sangallo, smiling, avoided that encounter. 
 
 "My dear friend, you and I would never get any- 
 where with that argument!" As if to change the 
 conversation still more, he returned to Italian: 
 
 "You're coming out to the Meeting to-morrow, at 
 Nero's Tomb?" 
 
 "Perhaps. Who generally shows up?" 
 
 "The old set, and a few new amazons. Madame 
 Semadeni invariably. Lady Glastenwold usu- 
 ally- 
 
 Camilla looked up from her knitting. In a rich, 
 contralto voice: 
 
 "That's the English Princess who came to drink 
 tea and was nice to me. She is simpatica" 
 
 "The Glastenwolds," Dungannan explained, "have 
 a place that marches with father's, in County Clare. 
 A fine woman. The open-air sort." 
 
 "Her brother," remarked Sangallo, "is a first-rate 
 fellow. Vincent Pamf or t. You know him, Maure? " 
 
 "I think not." 
 
 "He showed us some wonderful jumping last 
 month. But then, being English, no doubt he felt 
 that a little more than the usual was expected. We 
 miss him."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 95 
 
 Camilla, resting her work on her lap, asked Dun- 
 gannan: 
 
 "Bree-an, will the Signorina Bellamy go to Inghil- 
 terra-to marry him?" 
 
 Sebastian felt sure he could not have heard aright. 
 But Dungannan, with a laugh of vexation, reproached 
 her: 
 
 "Foolish child! When the English lady told me 
 that, it was meant to be a great secret." 
 
 She gazed at him with startled eyes. 
 
 "Then I have done wrong again! ..." 
 
 The blood rushed to Sebastian's head. He tried 
 to control his features. But Sangallo was staring. 
 He heard himself say, in an unnatural voice: 
 
 "That's news. . . ." 
 
 "Don't let it go any farther." 
 
 "I? Certainly not." 
 
 "You, too, Ernesto." 
 
 "I'd already surmised that much," Sangallo re- 
 plied, his gaze still fixed on Sebastian's face.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 NEXT morning, soon after nine o'clock, many 
 smart vehicles took the Nomentana Road, for the 
 rendezvous of the Roman Hunt. 
 
 The carriages had the start broughams, traps of 
 young officers drawn by scampering cobs, a coach 
 or two, horse-cabs, and even basket-carts. But all 
 these were soon overtaken by the motor-cars, flash- 
 ing, in the clear sunshine, through amber dust, amid 
 which appeared top-hats and ladies' derbies, coats of 
 fur and "pink," the blue and gray mantles of the 
 cavalry. 
 
 The northern suburbs shaken off, one saw on 
 either hand brown undulations, spreading afar to- 
 ward a misty frame of hills. The distant summits 
 lifted their snows against a cloudless sky. It was a 
 winter day without a flaw of azure melting into the 
 purple of mountain ranges, of gold dissolving into 
 the russet of sun-dried grass. 
 
 The procession streamed under the arches of an 
 ancient bridge: below, the Anio twisted, silvery and 
 thin, amid its willows. Farther on, the land was 
 almost empty, even of farms and herdsmen's shel- 
 ters. On every side lay the billowy desolation that 
 envelops Rome, in the vast hummocks of which one 
 seems to see the burial-ground of long-dead, gigantic 
 splendors, whose monuments are all effaced. 
 
 96
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 97 
 
 To the left, a narrow road branched off. All ve- 
 hicles turned into it. Presently, a farm appeared 
 rough walls among scrubby trees, dirty children at 
 gaze, earth-colored peasants standing motionless in 
 distrustful attitudes. 
 
 Every one alighted here, climbed a knoll, and 
 looked down on the place of rendezvous. 
 
 A hillside descended to a great hollow in the plain. 
 Near by, a few fragments of brick and marble, grass- 
 grown, sulking into the ground, marked the spot of 
 Nero's death. Farther down, a refreshment tent 
 had been pitched. Already, white-aproned waiters 
 were setting the long table and drawing corks. Be- 
 yond, grooms and orderlies were leading about their 
 masters' hunters. The huntsman, his horn between 
 the buttons of his red coat, sat his horse amid the 
 pack. 
 
 Ghirlaine and Lady Glastenwold found their hunt- 
 ers waiting for them in the hollow. 
 
 Not far off, Don Livio, in his black plush cap of 
 Master, was questioning two fattori, or farm-man- 
 agers. These men were mounted on shaggy ponies, 
 and dressed, for this occasion, in blue coats, with sil- 
 ver buttons which bore the crests of the noble houses 
 that they served. They pointed from time to time 
 across the tawny undulations toward the east. 
 
 Tito was dodging among the pale capes of his 
 brother officers. He made toward Princess Betty, 
 whose long coat of leopard-skin could be seen behind 
 a hedge of scarlet backs. But her velvet hat pro- 
 claimed that she had come out merely to watch the
 
 98 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 start. Everywhere, in fact, such millinery mingled 
 with the sedate head-gear of ladies who were going to 
 ride. The spectators were more numerous than the 
 field. 
 
 Some young men, in tweeds, gaiters, and caps, 
 sauntered round with complacent expressions, con- 
 vinced that they looked quite English. By the 
 tent, Don Leone was drinking a whiskey-and-soda. 
 Though hunting was too great a tax on his strength, 
 he had donned a suit of homespun, covered with 
 tiny knots of blue, crimson, and orange wool. 
 
 Several ladies were petting the hounds, a fine pack, 
 of thirty couple. Little Donna Isotta approached 
 them, urged by her governess, and followed by a big 
 man-servant, the collar and cuffs of his livery em- 
 broidered with the Campobasso insignia. But the 
 child soon tired of all those wagging tails. With 
 precocious composure, she fixed her eyes on Miss 
 Bellamy. 
 
 Ghirlaine threw her a kiss, then saw Mme. Se- 
 madeni. The Russian appeared more serpentine 
 than ever hi her black habit. She was lighting a 
 cigarette from de Chaumont's tinder-box. 
 
 But Ghirlaine's view of them was cut off by Donna 
 Letizia and Ernesto Sangallo. As these approached, 
 she heard the words: 
 
 " We must get up a fair at the Grand. A calendar- 
 sale? A cinematograph show? If we set out to take 
 tuberculous babies, and they send them on from 
 elsewhere, all the better. It's only a question of 
 money. ..."
 
 THE ISL& OF LIFE 99 
 
 They saw Ghirlaine, and came forward smiling. 
 
 "You two! Do you never meet without planning 
 good works? You must let me in on this." 
 
 "On what?" asked Lady Glastenwold, riding up, a 
 flat little derby crammed down over her eyes. 
 
 "We were talking charity." 
 
 "Not in favor of the fox, I hope?" 
 
 "As if he needed it!" cried Andreas Romanovitch, 
 appearing from nowhere, with a flourish of his top- 
 hat. "These days, the only thing we seem likely to 
 accomplish is to make him die from laughing at us." 
 
 "Every year," Sangallo remarked, "the rascals 
 move out farther from the city." 
 
 "And consequently force us to get up always a 
 little earlier in the morning. Parbleu, when one 
 thinks of it, they have a cheek! To-day, for in- 
 stance, they've cost me my beauty sleep." 
 
 "Your what?" inquired de Chaumont, joining the 
 circle with Mme. Semadeni. 
 
 Andreas, turning to his countrywoman, protested: 
 
 "Am I not considered dangerously good-looking 
 according to Russian standards?" 
 
 "Perhaps," de Chaumont suggested, in flute-like 
 tones, "that's why one finds so many Russian ladies 
 travelling?" 
 
 "But certainly. For they began to do so in ear- 
 nest I refer you to the Bureau of Passports only 
 after I set out myself. But I shall never marry," he 
 added, shooting a melancholy glance at Ghirlaine. 
 "I mean to say, not immoderately." 
 
 "I should think," suggested Sangallo, "that mat-
 
 ioo THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 rimony, in moderation, might even improve you. If 
 the lily can really be painted." 
 
 Mme. Semadeni said: 
 
 "The daughter of the Brazilian Minister is staring 
 at you now, with her soul in her eyes. She'd look 
 very well at court in the sarafane and the kokochnik." 
 
 "Dear lady, I naturally don't want my wife to be 
 as intelligent as I; but I should require at least a few 
 glimmerings. That sweet-faced girl shows up at all 
 these festivities on a kicking horse." 
 
 "Disgusting!" exclaimed Lady Glastenwold, glar- 
 ing round. "All the same, I see some one whose 
 wretched brains might be kicked out very ad- 
 vantageously." 
 
 By the tent, in a crowd of uniforms, Sebastian 
 Maure was standing. 
 
 His burly shoulders stretched the scarlet cloth 
 of his coat. His long legs swelled out beneath the 
 white folds of his riding-breeches. He took a cig- 
 arette from his lips, thrust up his heavy chin, and 
 expelled a deep laugh, that was echoed by half a 
 dozen voices. 
 
 Ghirlaine averted her eyes to find Sangallo look- 
 ing at her intently. 
 
 Sebastian Maure watched the novelist put her on 
 her horse. Her black hat and dress made her hair 
 appear a paler gold, her skin a rarer pink and white, 
 than usual. Indeed, the texture of her face seemed, 
 in this brilliant sunshine, to have become translu- 
 cent. And the long contours of her figure, sharply 
 defined by the habit and her present attitude, re-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 101 
 
 vealed at once a pure simplicity and a subtle richness. 
 
 He thought of Galatea, not yet transformed from 
 marble to flesh, but too disturbing not to contain the 
 possibilities of an all-human wakening. Again he 
 seemed to discern, beneath that coldly beautiful ex- 
 terior, a secret creature, capable of flaming divinely 
 into passion, some day, for some one. 
 
 For whom? For the man she had promised to 
 marry? 
 
 He suppressed an almost homicidal smile. 
 
 The pack, driven in by huntsman and whip, was 
 approaching through the crowd. Prince Campobasso 
 followed, with the nucleus of his field. The officers 
 round the tent shed their cloaks and scattered toward 
 their horses. Everywhere, above moving heads, men 
 and women were rising into the saddle. 
 
 As the cavalcade set off behind the hounds, Sebas- 
 tian found himself with Andreas Romanovitch. The 
 sun was in their faces. 
 
 "I know a Russian who looks seedy this morning." 
 
 "The truth is, Sebastian of my heart, that I am 
 frightened stiff. Some day I shall break my neck 
 at these idiotic antics. Last night I had thirteen 
 drinks. This morning, there was a black cat in the 
 vestibule. When I left the house, a hunchbacked 
 woman ran into me. Yes : I think it will be to-day. 
 A pity! I had a most interesting engagement for 
 to-morrow. But as all the papers will mention 
 it, she'd hardly show up. Unless she believes in 
 spiritism. Even so " 
 
 "What the deuce do you hunt for?"
 
 102 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Lots of men kill themselves at the altar of public 
 opinion. At any rate, this will be as chic a death as 
 any. And in a sufficiently handsome setting ! Look 
 at that landscape. Even you ought to see the ar- 
 tistry of Providence in it." 
 
 The other replied, indifferently: 
 
 "'How beautiful it would be if Corot had painted 
 it.'" 
 
 "Corot!" 
 
 " Certainly. He, at least, would have known what 
 to suppress." 
 
 "Poseur!" 
 
 Sebastian yawned, and they rode on in silence. 
 
 At last, Andreas, peering ahead into the thick of 
 the crowd, inquired: 
 
 " Can you see who's going to pilot Miss Bellamy?" 
 
 "Tito, I should judge." 
 
 "He'll lead her up to all the stiff fences. So 
 precious a creature ought to ride with some one who 
 knows what fear is like. Will you come along?" 
 
 "Thanks. I'll play my own game, I think." 
 
 Andreas, humping his shoulders, trotted forward. 
 
 The pack moved on eastward. The field followed 
 quietly behind the Master, alert, reins well in hand. 
 For in the Campagna the foxes were not found in 
 coverts, but in the open. 
 
 Suddenly, a stir went through the field. Ahead, 
 the hounds were speeding away in full cry. The 
 pink coats of huntsman and whip flew after them. 
 To a thud of hoof-beats, the field set off. 
 
 Andreas gained Ghirlaine's side as the rush began.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 103 
 
 With a tragic grimace, he clutched his hat and 
 plunged forward at her elbow. But Tito, on her 
 other hand, soon called to her: 
 
 " Pull out ! He won't hold up- wind for long." 
 
 "Don Livio doesn't cut." 
 
 "He means to go round that plateau. If we top 
 it, we'll show the whole crowd our backs." 
 
 "But what's beyond?" shouted Andreas. 
 
 "Leave that to me, old Cossack! I know this 
 place like my hand." 
 
 The three swerved northward. A few moments 
 later, the pack was streaming parallel to their course. 
 The whole field was turning. 
 
 "What did I tell you!" cried Tito. 
 
 Already the riders had scattered. Red coats, black 
 habits, uniforms, skimmed into sight here and there 
 on high ground, next instant to disappear into hol- 
 lows. The rush of air, the dull rataplan of hoofs, the 
 faint clamor of hounds, filled Ghirlaine with reckless- 
 ness. Her habitual self was being swept back, by 
 the singing air, toward the regions of every-day. But 
 she urged her horse to bear her on ever faster. Her 
 instinct seemed to recognize, in these savage emo- 
 tions, not retrogression, but progress! There before 
 her, in the midst of desolate, dangerous vistas, she 
 glimpsed, as it were, for one moment, the riddle of 
 happiness. . . . 
 
 They went down a long stretch of hillside. The 
 plateau rose before them. Their hunters attacked 
 the slope. The rest of the field, however, was scurry- 
 ing eastward again. Andreas warned Tito that they 
 were losing the others.
 
 104 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Let them go. They're afraid of this hill, that's 
 all." 
 
 The three reached the summit in a scrambling 
 rush and desperately drew rein. 
 
 They were on the brink of an almost perpendicular 
 bluff. Loose earth, streaked with stony waterways, 
 ran down thirty feet to the plain. Marchese Tito, 
 leaning over his horse's neck, examined this precipice 
 with a fallen jaw. 
 
 "Capers! I must have been thinking of the land 
 round Divino Amore!" 
 
 Andreas, gazing eastward at the fast-disappearing 
 field, stuck his tongue in his cheek. 
 
 "Hair-brained Sicilian! When you become Mas- 
 ter, the Hunt will need parachutes." 
 
 Tito flushed violently beneath his swarthy skin. 
 In a voice hoarse with suppressed anger, he retorted : 
 
 "Whatever you wish, of course! All the same, if 
 we three were all men " 
 
 Ghirlaine nearly laughed outright. 
 
 "Well, Marchese?" 
 
 His eyes gleamed with foolhardy determination to 
 wipe out his disgrace. 
 
 "Then I should have said, 'What odds? FoUow 
 me!'" 
 
 And he jerked his horse's head round toward the 
 precipice. 
 
 She stifled a cry of alarm. Andreas spurred for- 
 ward. But it was too late to stop Tito. Lying back 
 almost flat against his hunter's rump, he went over 
 the edge. 
 
 The two spectators held their breath. The horse's
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 105 
 
 forelegs, stiffly braced, seemed every instant about 
 to be overbalanced. But the dexterous beast, neck 
 arched, haunches trembling, his dainty hoofs slipping 
 midst rivulets of gravel, had almost reached the bot- 
 tom before he lost footing. 
 
 There was a crash, a confusion of man and horse, 
 a cloud of dust. -At the foot of the precipice, the 
 hunter rolled over and scrambled upright. Tito sat 
 on the ground, with a pale, foolish face, one hand 
 pressed against his side. After carefully poking at 
 his tunic, he vouchsafed, indignantly: 
 
 "How absurdly fragile are ribs!" 
 
 The others rode rapidly along the plateau to its 
 end, descended in safety, and galloped back. The 
 soldier received them grinning. His anger had 
 vanished. 
 
 "Andreas, you're going to miss the rest of your 
 hunting." 
 
 "I, too," said Ghirlaine, and prepared to dismount. 
 
 "You, Miss Bellamy? No, indeed! You must 
 ride on at once. The runs are never long. You 
 can easily catch the rest." 
 
 "Marchese, you ask me to leave you here?" 
 
 "Why not, per Bacco? I'm always breaking my 
 bones. I know just what to do. We shall ride at a 
 walk to the tent, Andreas and I, motor home, and 
 send for the vet. He'll come and tell me his favorite 
 story, in hopes that I laugh and hurt myself. Don't 
 be alarmed: I've never laughed at it yet." 
 
 He added, in a different voice: 
 
 "Besides, if you were so good as to go back with
 
 io6 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 us, they'd mention that, too, in the Italic to-morrow. 
 Am I right, Andreas?" 
 
 "Absolutely. And after the Italie, the five- 
 o'clocks. ..." 
 
 She remembered she was in Rome. People would 
 ask one another, with relish: "How did she get so 
 far afield? Did she arrive with help, or go to fetch it? 
 Which tete-a-tete did the accident interrupt?" By 
 to-morrow night, a good many persons, who could 
 not understand American girls at all, would have 
 made the adventure more than romantic. 
 
 Still, she would probably have remained anyway 
 but she thought of Vincent. She knew perfectly the 
 thinness of the ice which, in Latin society, an unmar- 
 ried American girl had to cross to escape, at her 
 betrothal, reminiscent gossip highly distasteful not 
 only to her, but as well to her fiance. 
 
 It was this that persuaded her to ride on alone. 
 
 But she had not gone a mile when something told 
 her she might have done better to stay. She turned 
 to look back. 
 
 At the foot of the bluff, horses and men appeared 
 very small already. She made out Tito's tunic. He 
 seemed to have mounted. Then the pink of Andreas' 
 coat divided! One part remained still. The other 
 crept out across the plain. 
 
 A moment ago, three men had been there to- 
 gether. Now one was following her. And she knew 
 who this one must be. ... 
 
 Her hunter bounded northward. It was a flight. 
 
 From one summit, she saw, far ahead, scattered
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 107 
 
 points of scarlet and black. The nearer distance was 
 covered with a net-work of fences. Abruptly, close 
 at hand, on low ground, a hut appeared, ringed round 
 by trees. 
 
 The hunt was still coursing away in the depths of a 
 country cut up by obstacles. She could not hope to 
 overtake it before being caught. But now, for the 
 moment, the hillocks hid her pursuer from view. If 
 she reached this hut unseen, before he emerged, per- 
 haps he would pass straight on? 
 
 He had not come in sight again when she gained 
 that shelter, rode round to the back, and slid from 
 her saddle. But this was no sooner done than 
 regretted. 
 
 She had obeyed the sort of impulse which drives 
 one straight into the very dilemma one wants to 
 avoid. Too late she knew that he would divine her 
 trick how transparent, now, how puerile, how un- 
 worthy of her pride ! He would find her here. They 
 would be alone in this waste. 
 
 Soon she heard hoof-beats approaching. 
 
 And, in order that her humiliation might not be 
 complete, she pulled herself together, raised her chin, 
 and walked out into the open. 
 
 He rode up, dismounted, and stood before her. 
 
 On all sides, for miles, extended that solitude, to 
 dissolve at last, far off, in a mellow mist above which 
 floated the white and violet-colored surfaces of the 
 hills. The air was not stirred by any breeze. No 
 sound came to them. 
 
 At last, he said:
 
 io8 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "It was imprudent of you to run off like that. In 
 these parts a lady never wanders about alone." 
 
 If this was duplicity, pride forced her to cap it 
 with the falsehood: 
 
 "My horse picked up a stone. I expected to find 
 some one here, to help me mount again." 
 
 "All the worse. A few of these peasants turn into 
 extraordinary rascals without any notice." 
 
 "That never occurred to me. It was rather fool- 
 ish, wasn't it? Especially as I don't speak Italian." 
 
 "You don't speak Italian?" 
 
 He regarded her thoughtfully. Then a look of 
 amusement crossed his face. He demanded: 
 
 "Why are you always running away from me?" 
 
 "I? How absurd! Why should I? " 
 
 "Maybe some one's told you that I'm a sort of 
 ogre. Yet you see I haven't tucked my napkin under 
 my chin. I presume that ogres tuck napkins under 
 their chins, before beginning their hideous repasts? 
 I have a dim recollection of their doing it, in fairy- 
 tales. It surprises you that I was once a small boy ? 
 I admit the absurdity of the thought. There were 
 even people who patted me on the head! Though 
 you'll hardly believe they did that twice. Your in- 
 tuition tells you they must have discovered my 
 horns." 
 
 "Now I know you're not in earnest." 
 
 "I'm perfectly in earnest. You dislike me so 
 much that you can't bear the sight of me. Is it be- 
 cause I've let you see that you attract me tre- 
 mendously?"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 109 
 
 "If you please!" she%said, quickly. 
 
 " You're wrong to take offence at that. You might 
 as well blame me for being fascinated by the Vatican 
 Venus. Or Watteau's 'Embarkment for Cythera.* 
 Or the Shrine in Or San Michele. Or any other beau- 
 tifully perfected thing. You shouldn't forbid me the 
 happiness of admiring you any more than the Louvre 
 ought to lock up its treasures when I come in sight. 
 In your case, even less excuse. For one sometimes 
 steals a Mona Lisa. But one doesn't get away so 
 easily with a live young woman who has so strong 
 an opinion of her own about it." 
 
 This unexpected tone made her recent thoughts 
 seem almost hysterical. She was able to retort, with 
 a fair imitation of his own manner: 
 
 "A very good thing, apparently, that I seem to 
 show a lack of sympathy." 
 
 "No doubt. Why not be frank about it? With 
 the slightest encouragement, I might act in a per- 
 fectly outrageous manner." 
 
 He was looking at her with an intense, yet sur- 
 reptitious, keenness. Abruptly, straightening her- 
 self, she said: 
 
 "Mr. Maure, need I tell you that I'm not accus- 
 tomed to this sort of thing?" 
 
 "In the world we know best, one seldom en- 
 counters natural conduct. For instance, if I wish 
 to express any inclination toward an unmarried girl, 
 I have to begin by pretending that neither of us are 
 human beings. But here, in the very heart of nat- 
 ure, one feels a certain impulse to be normal. . . . J>
 
 no THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "May I ask you to put me on my horse?" 
 
 He became serious. 
 
 "Too bad! We might almost have understood 
 each other to-day." 
 
 "I really don't see the necessity." 
 
 "The necessity remains, all the same. And who 
 knows when we should find another such chance?" 
 
 She stared at him blankly. But, with a sudden 
 gentleness that she had not thought him capable of, 
 he explained: 
 
 "I mean, I want so much to alter your opinion of 
 me." 
 
 He pointed to a rough bench, against the hut, by 
 the open door. 
 
 " Come, sit down for a minute or two. It will do 
 no harm for you to think of me a little more gen- 
 erously." 
 
 She felt that he had made open antagonism impos- 
 sible for the moment. She did not believe that this 
 new tone was sincere. Yet in decency she could 
 hardly avoid responding to it. But she still tem- 
 porized : 
 
 "It's all so superfluous!" 
 
 "Kindness will never seem amiss in you." 
 
 She sat down on one end of the bench. He seated 
 himself on the other. Leaning back, and crossing his 
 hands on his knee, he gazed out across the plain. 
 
 "It was in France, at the Montlherys' garden- 
 party, that I met you. Immediately, you disliked 
 me. I'm used to that. But in your case, I couldn't 
 bring myself to indifference. . . .
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE in 
 
 "I presume your first impression of me was af- 
 fected by several things. To pass over my looks 
 as charitably as possible, my reputation was hard 
 against me, from your point of view. I might say 
 one ought not to believe quite everything one hears. 
 You'd probably reply that even gossip has more or 
 less foundation. Besides, there are those books of 
 mine. You've never read them, of course! But 
 you've heard about them? 
 
 "Yes, I can understand how repugnant to you I 
 must have been, that day. You're not like the gen- 
 eral run. If I'm called one thing more than another, 
 it's that I am 'perversely wicked.' That, in itself, 
 would be quite enough for you. 
 
 "But let's run over some of the popular charges 
 against me, viewed from that stand-point. . . . 
 
 "Not to bore you, there's the subject of religion. 
 Usually, they harp on that. I don't see why. Now- 
 adays, what men do you find, in good society, except 
 the 'Blacks' in Rome and some of the English, who 
 make any pretence at being Christians? 
 
 "What's to blame? One's early training? To be 
 sure, at Lausanne, and Bonn, and Gottingen, I got 
 a rather heavy dose of physics, biology, chemistry, 
 higher mathematics, and so on. Religious faith is 
 often difficult after scientific instruction. It isn't 
 perversity that makes honest non-believers, but ed- 
 ucation. 
 
 "Still, as soon as I began to consider such matters, 
 I felt as I do to-day. When I was young, good people 
 tried to show me the evil of my ways. It seemed to
 
 112 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 me that their arguments soon left the boundaries of 
 logic. Or rather, that they soon ceased to argue at 
 all, and fell back on simple assertion. Their final 
 word always was, 'Such things are not proved, but 
 felt.' I've never felt them: so I've never believed. 
 
 "I think that in a few years I shall be like the 
 brown grass of this Campagna. Yesterday it was 
 alive. To-day it's dead. No one pretends that a 
 new spring is going to revive these blades. We know 
 they'll live again merely through their descendants. 
 Of all that dwells on earth, only mankind does man, 
 in his vanity, flatter with promises of another life. 
 
 "So I believe that with death there'll be an end of 
 me. Meanwhile, however, I shall have lived. And 
 here we are at the point of personal conduct. . . . 
 
 " Do you remember what Emerson said about that? 
 * What have I to do with the sacredness of traditions, 
 if I live from within? No law can be sacred to me 
 but that of my nature.' And he was right. To be 
 an individual, one must live his own life. 
 
 "We don't all find our best satisfaction in the same 
 way. Certain types get their greatest happiness in 
 being ascetic. But those shouldn't expect all the 
 rest of humanity to follow their lead. There are 
 natures and natures. Saint Teresa would be wretched 
 in Messalina's palace. Messalina would be no less 
 miserable in a convent-cell. 
 
 "I confess I'm one of those who'd find only misery 
 in asceticism. Or in slavery to an uncongenial pub- 
 lic opinion. 
 
 "Do you realize that nothing enrages the world so
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 113 
 
 much as a man who worries along without its ap- 
 proval? What haven't they said about me those 
 good folks! 
 
 "One thing, they adore repeating that I drink too 
 much. I drink a good deal, to be sure. But too 
 much? A man only drinks too much if he drinks 
 when he doesn't want to. I seldom do anything I 
 don't want to. 
 
 " Then, too, they call me a shocking fellow in other 
 ways. Here again my ideas are going to offend you. 
 All the same, I hold them to be the truth. The truth 
 that society still denies, with a sort of pathetic des- 
 peration, in the face of continual proof. To be sat- 
 isfied with one for life is another ideal I can't believe 
 in. . . ." 
 
 Ghirlaine's eyes remained fixed on his sombre face, 
 intently, almost wonderingly. He fascinated her, as 
 something abnormal fascinates this man whose 
 words blighted everything they touched. Immaculate 
 in his "pink" and doeskin and glistening leather and 
 white linen, he seemed to her the epitome of moral 
 corruption. In the clear sunlight, all the deteriora- 
 tion of his features was emphasized. Only, for some 
 strange reason, his hands seemed the hands of an- 
 other person : large but exceedingly shapely, muscular 
 but informed with a curious, almost insidious deli- 
 cacy. It was when she looked at his hands that her 
 heart beat faster, that she was afraid again though 
 of what she did not know. . . . 
 
 He was saying, with a half -humorous intonation: 
 
 " After all, where do I differ from half the men one
 
 114 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 meets? Their opinions are much like mine. They 
 keep them better hidden, that's all or practise them 
 less frankly. So they escape the abuse I receive. 
 To be sure, condemnation will never mean anything 
 to me. Unless you continue to share it." 
 
 He turned to her, and leaned forward. His face 
 was changed. In it she saw, as it were, a hint of the 
 charm of youth. It was as if the ghostly counte- 
 nance of an ardent boy were showing, just for the 
 moment, through that mask. In a lower voice he 
 went on: 
 
 "I want you to put aside what others say, and 
 judge me for yourself. You'll find that I'm merely a 
 man like the rest, rather less hypocritical, or deluded, 
 than most, but capable of a certain kind of idealism. 
 The only satiable kind. . . . 
 
 " I'm very much in love with you. I feel this more 
 deeply than I'd thought it possible to feel anything. 
 I'm not fond of superlatives. But I know that 
 you've stirred my life to its foundations. There's 
 been nothing like this! 
 
 "Don't retort that my disillusionments are very 
 different from your ideals. The ideal is for a life- 
 time maybe even beyond. The disillusionment is 
 only sure of the hour. Perhaps. But what an 
 hour!" 
 
 His voice died in his throat. He wrapped his 
 hands together. And, though he did not approach 
 her by a hair's-breadth, once more she seemed to feel 
 his passion sweep out, like a sheet of flame, and play 
 round her.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 115 
 
 But now she was not-afraid. Her fear had left her 
 in that moment when youth had peeped through the 
 mask. She had recalled Sangallo's words, "That 
 man's soul is dead. . . ." And there is no room in 
 the heart for fear and pity together. 
 
 Looking him in the eyes, she answered, quietly: 
 
 "I'm sorry for you. I'm sorry for any one who is 
 so far from God." 
 
 "But if God, after all, is only a creation of the 
 imagination?" 
 
 " What is love but that? " she retorted, then bit her 
 Up. 
 
 "Ah. I see you don't yet know love." 
 
 She felt her cheeks tingling. All her being was in 
 revolt against this moment of intimacy, of revelation, 
 that he, with surely a diabolical ingenuity, had driven 
 her to. She stammered, by way of recovery: 
 
 " I should have told you at first that I'm engaged 
 to be married." 
 
 He seemed not to have heard this speech. Staring 
 afield, he asked: 
 
 "Do you realize that for half an hour you've been 
 here, alone, with a most corrupt and unscrupulous 
 character, who'd give all the world for you? If you 
 told that in Rome to-night! They'd never believe 
 we hadn't played some very thrilling melodrama out 
 here." 
 
 Standing up, he pointed across the Campagna. 
 
 " I see three riders coming back. Two men and a 
 woman. Can you make them out?" 
 
 She discerned, on a far-off ridge, two specks of red
 
 Ii6 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 and one of black. They were not approaching, but 
 moving slowly southward. 
 
 "I hardly think there's a good enough pair of eyes 
 among them to see us under these trees. Now I'm 
 going to put you on your horse. When you join 
 them, you'd better not mention me. I suspect the 
 black dot is Mme. Semadeni. If so, you won't have 
 to mention anything. She's a decent sort. The 
 only woman of my acquaintance who knows how to 
 hold her tongue in Rome." 
 
 He led the way round behind the hut. There he 
 gave her a hand-up, fixed her foot in the stirrup, 
 pulled down her apron-skirt. Stepping back, he 
 said: 
 
 "Good-by." 
 
 " Good-by. And thank you." 
 
 "It's I who owe the thanks." 
 
 She rode away. 
 
 He went back to the bench, sat down, and lighted 
 a cigarette. Stretching out his long legs, he closed 
 his eyes wearily. He was like a man relaxing from 
 an abnormal strain of self-retention. 
 
 Soon, without opening his eyes, he uttered a sort 
 of laugh: 
 
 "Not bad. ."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AFTER her encounter with Sebastian Maure in the 
 Campagna, Ghirlaine Bellamy wondered at her past 
 apprehensions. His confidences had not deceived 
 her. She felt that his pretence of frankness con- 
 cealed a depravity not to be put into words. Still, 
 he no longer frightened her. 
 
 She had no doubt of the intensity, or the char- 
 acter, of his feelings toward her. Yet, in that lonely 
 place, the notorious antagonist of restraint had failed 
 to apply his theories in the slightest. She believed 
 that his audacity, at least, was greatly overestimated. 
 She had been alarmed by some one whose conduct, 
 at the pinch, turned out to be very much like that 
 of the rest of her world. 
 
 Her forebodings vanished. Things about her re- 
 sumed their normal look. She recalled Mme. Se- 
 madeni's "palmistry" with a smile. All these days, 
 how absurdly hysterical she had been! How credu- 
 lous! How unlike herself! 
 
 At the same time, she found herself at liberty to 
 set out toward England. Her aunt was conva- 
 lescent. The doctor prescribed a sea voyage. They 
 decided to sail north, by the Asiatic, from Naples, in 
 three days. Ghirlaine cabled to Vincent Pamfort 
 that she would reach London within a fortnight. 
 
 She anticipated that meeting with a new fervor. 
 
 117
 
 n8 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 It was as if she had hardly appreciated her lover till 
 now. But Sebastian Maure's proposal had arrayed 
 those two personalities side by side with startling dis- 
 tinctness. At last she knew the full value of the man 
 she had promised to marry. 
 
 How much he offered her! But she would know 
 how to repay him. . . . One would have said that the 
 flames of the unwelcome passion, playing round her, 
 had, indeed, warmed her heart to unprecedented 
 ardors but for another. 
 
 She seemed already to see, as a setting for life-long 
 happiness, the fair English countryside, and that 
 homestead of a congenial race, full of honors. Ought 
 she not to be happy? 
 
 "So I am," she said. "The happiest girl in the 
 world." 
 
 She was sitting in her pale-blue salon at the Excel- 
 sior. Her maid had filled all the furniture with 
 folded dresses, preparatory to packing them. 
 
 They were of silk, of satin, of lace, of gold and silver 
 tissue, and covered with needlework that had cost 
 untold hours of toil. They were not, perhaps, the 
 attire of a European young girl, but of an American, 
 one of those who to-day still astonish the Conti- 
 nent by being, in costume and manner, at once a 
 jeune fille and a woman of the world. They formed 
 the panoply of one who has to preserve for beauty 
 that supreme respect only earned, in her native 
 sphere, by its extravagant adornment. They rep- 
 resented a fortune sufficient to have kept many a 
 household in comfort for years.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 119 
 
 From those shimmering heaps, it was difficult to- 
 choose the gowns she wanted to wear, the two days 
 that remained to her in Rome. 
 
 This afternoon, she was going to a tea at Mme. .de 
 Chaumont's. There she would have to tell every 
 one she was departing. Sebastian Maure, on hear- 
 ing this news, would try to see her again? 
 
 After all, if he succeeded, what harm? In three 
 days, she would leave him behind forever! She did 
 not think of him again till she was at Mme. de Chau- 
 mont's. 
 
 In the long suite of reception-rooms, all the win- 
 dows were screened against the sunshine. Shaded 
 lamps diffused a glow that left the cornices in shadow. 
 Round the tea-tables, the radiance was most intense, 
 as if issuing from the masses of chased silver and 
 crystal, crowned with roses. 
 
 The conversation was deafening. One hardly 
 heard the string-band, as it played the latest languor- 
 ous waltz. The hot air, drugged with many per- 
 fumes and the odors of flowers, furs, and food, pul- 
 sated from the din. Through a sort of reddish mist 
 appeared countless powdered faces, the intermingling 
 plumes of extraordinary hats, necks decked with 
 jewels, figures constricted in rich-colored silks, that 
 slipped round one another with serpentine dexterity. 
 Here and there, a man's bare head was raised, an eye- 
 glass flashed, an uptwirled mustache disappeared 
 behind a tea-cup. 
 
 Mme. de Chaumont, in purple satin, her corsage 
 ornamented with diamonds, looked almost handsome
 
 120 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 as she received the swarm. A sweet smile kept re- 
 turning to her lips. If she detested society, no one 
 would have supposed it from her demeanor. This 
 spirituettf, slim creature, who was credited with a 
 longing to enter the Sacre Cceur, appeared to-day a 
 woman of the Parisian great world. 
 
 Ghirlaine saw, above the fluttering hats, the black- 
 ish, solemn ugliness of Don Giulio Brazzazza. And 
 she was not in time to check the thought, "Possibly 
 so good an actress may have other roles?" 
 
 The next instant, she asked herself: "Good 
 Heavens, shall I end by having a mind like half the 
 rest? Is all this affecting me, too, at last?" 
 
 And suddenly the air of that place, sweet, lax, and 
 vitiated, seemed laden with an insidious poison. 
 
 How long she had breathed its like! 
 
 Beside her, spread over a chair, the Marchesa of 
 Portagialla leaned on her canes. She looked like an 
 obese, bewhiskered old idol. Her little black eyes 
 glittered behind their rolls of fat. 
 
 "Eh, my dear, and whose heart are you going to 
 break to-day?" 
 
 In fact, all the men in the room were staring at 
 Ghirlaine. She wore a costume of peacock-blue, em- 
 broidered over the bust with dull gold. At her neck 
 was a brooch of sapphires that matched the hue of 
 her eyes, these shadowed by the wide brim of her hat 
 laden with peacock-blue willow-plumes. 
 
 Smiling, she answered the old Marchesa: 
 
 "But aren't hearts rather hard to break, after all? " 
 
 "Dio mio! At your age I'd seen at least one at-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 121 
 
 tempt at suicide, not to mention the duels. What's 
 the world coming to? There seem to be very few 
 really ardent temperaments left! In the Rome of 
 the Caesars, a girl was married at thirteen more often 
 than not. I hear that in your country, to-day, half 
 of them put it off till they're thirty. A few years 
 more, and I wonder how the human race is going to 
 continue legitimately! " 
 
 Sangallo appeared beside them. 
 
 "I'm about to run away with Miss Bellamy, if 
 you'll let me? Donna Letizia's looking for her." 
 
 "Very well, young man. Though in my time, 
 thank God, that wasn't how one ran away with a 
 beauty. ..." 
 
 As they made through the crowd, the novelist re- 
 marked: 
 
 "I hear you're leaving." 
 
 "Day after to-morrow." 
 
 "I'm going to miss you. Some time, when I voy- 
 age to England, you'll let me call on you both?" 
 
 She had a shock of surprise. Her engagement was 
 known! 
 
 "How did you find that out?" 
 
 "You could never guess. Fancy an accidental 
 word let fall by a peasant-girl!" 
 
 And, without removing his gaze from her face, he 
 related the talk in Brian Dungannan's studio. 
 
 "But I'm sure your secret's still safe even in 
 Rome ! There were only the four of us. And Maure, 
 whatever his faults may be, isn't a gossip." 
 
 After a moment's thought, she demanded:
 
 122 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "When was all this?" 
 
 "The day before the last Meeting." 
 
 So Sebastian Maure had known it when he met her 
 in the Campagna! 
 
 "Where is Donna Letizia," she inquired, in a 
 rather breathless voice. 
 
 They found her with Mme. Semadeni. 
 
 But Princess Campobasso came hurrying through 
 the crush. Dressed in smoky-red silk, she wore 
 round her white throat a necklet of rubies. Ap- 
 proaching Ghirlaine, she cried: 
 
 "It's not true you're deserting us!" 
 
 "The doctor wants Aunt Charlotte to take a sea 
 voyage " 
 
 "So you must sacrifice yourself! Really, you 
 know, this self-sacrifice thing can be run in the 
 ground. If Sangallo will stop his ears, I've been 
 strengthening that opinion of late by reading 
 
 "Sebastian Maure?" drawled Mme. Semadeni. 
 
 "Sebastian Maure indeed! Nietzsche, my dear! 
 The apostle of Dionysian happiness." 
 
 "Nietzsche," repeated Don Leone Torquato, 
 lounging up, very pale and tired-looking. "Ah, 
 yes. The chap who died insane. Why is it that the 
 apostles of happiness are apt to die so uncomfort- 
 ably? And, often, so early?" 
 
 He interrupted himself with a fit of coughing. 
 
 Donna Letizia Torquato made a quick gesture. 
 But at once she resumed her habitual look, half proud 
 and half sad. 
 
 Ghirlaine glanced from mother to son. She re-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 123 
 
 called the tales she had heard about this boy. As if 
 the inheritance of his father's degenerate line were 
 not enough, he persisted, with a sort of fatal madness, 
 in debauchery that was killing him even before his 
 time. 
 
 "But do you admire Nietzsche, Don Leone?" 
 
 "I confess I find Sebastian Maure's philosophy 
 more satisfying. You see, in some ways it goes 
 farther. Then, too, it's dressed in fiction: conse- 
 quently its appeal is wider. Besides, it's much easier 
 to read. Maure's style is remarkably lucid. His 
 sentences would charm a child or an artist. How 
 about that, Ernesto?" 
 
 Sangallo assented: 
 
 "A style fit to be the medium of a great propa- 
 ganda." 
 
 Hector de Chaumont's fan-shaped beard joined the 
 circle. And the Frenchman, in his shallow, lyrical 
 voice, protested at once: 
 
 "Propaganda! My dear fellow! Art ceases to be 
 art, when it starts to preach. Literature, to go on 
 existing, has got to keep out of the pulpit." 
 
 "If Voltaire, for instance, had held that opinion, 
 the eighteenth century would hardly have seen a 
 French Revolution, or the birth of liberty, equality, 
 and fraternity." 
 
 "La, la! Merely words, even to-day. A mirage 
 in the minds of idealists." 
 
 "It's by constantly reaffirming ideals that we 
 finally turn them to practice." 
 
 "I think," sai^iiw^ople, "ideafejare a frightful 
 
 ; ; . : . 

 
 124 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 bore. Indeed, I agree with Maure that they're quite 
 absurd." 
 
 Sangallo's eyes met Ghirlaine's. She recalled his 
 words in the Borghese Gardens, "It isn't the strong 
 alone who read, but also the weak. And weakness 
 is always susceptible to disease. . . ." 
 
 And she saw, in this sickly youth before her, 
 driven on toward his fate by his inability to resist 
 evil influence, the personification of all Maure's vic- 
 tims. This one epitomized all the morally crippled, 
 the inefficient of conscience, the feeble in need of 
 strength, whose pitiable perversity had brought them 
 in sympathy with that arch-perversity, to their 
 greater prostration. And at this moment she hated 
 Sebastian Maure as never before. 
 
 Her face must have spoken thus to Sangallo. For 
 his brows contracted. He shook his head. He 
 seemed to be telling her, "Now you are going too 
 fast. . . ." 
 
 But Leone was relating some scandal to Hector de 
 Chaumont. Fiammetta Innocenti and Andreas Ro- 
 mano vitch had parted "forever." He knew this for 
 a fact. He had passed her hotel just as the Russian 
 dashed out on the sidewalk, beside himself, a spec- 
 tacle for the passers-by. 
 
 "Bah!" de Chaumont commented, shrugging his 
 shoulders. "With those two, it's always like that." 
 
 "I think not. He jumped into my cab. While I 
 was taking him home, he renounced her formally. 
 She's made a mistake this time. She's plagued him 
 once too often. And all the thousands "
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 125 
 
 "In fact," de Chaumont assented, "he has been 
 hard up of late." 
 
 Mme. Semadeni did not hesitate to join this dis- 
 cussion: 
 
 "If Andreas Romanovitch pretends he's hard up, 
 on that account or any other, it's merely another 
 pose. The Tchernaieff family is enormously rich. 
 Half the independent oil-fields round Baku are in 
 their hands. I suppose this one thinks that poverty 
 is chic. Just so, he pretends he's depraved, when he's 
 naturally religious. But mon Dieu! What would 
 life be like, without its grotesques!" 
 
 Her Slavonic pessimism appeared. She looked 
 round her, sombre-eyed, as if disenchanted with 
 everything. 
 
 "This Innocenti began in the gutter, I hear," said 
 Donna Letizia. Her famous charity could not ex- 
 tend to that "creature," whom her son quite frankly 
 admired. But de Chaumont, thoughtfully stroking 
 his beard, asked Leone: 
 
 "When did this business happen?" 
 
 "While I was on my way here." 
 
 "Tiens. . . ." 
 
 And, as soon as the conversation had changed, he 
 vanished. 
 
 Leone, on missing him, at once guessed the truth. 
 He glanced toward Mme. de Chaumont, who was still 
 receiving industriously. Then, with a snicker, in 
 English : 
 
 "Rather schokking, what?" 
 
 Ghirlaine made as if to pass on to another group. 
 But Princess Betty detained her.
 
 126 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 " Not till you've promised to spend to-morrow with 
 me. Besides, you must tell me how Tito met wdth his, 
 accident. Over the telephone, he does nothing but 
 make silly jokes about it." 
 
 "Does Tito make jokes now?" Leone inquired, 
 with malicious interest. "Diamine, it's wonderful! 
 He's certainly getting on." 
 
 And, since no one looked at him askance, he 
 ventured to add: 
 
 "See the miracles it effects!" 
 
 "That what effects?" Princess Betty demanded. 
 
 "Why, Roman civilization!" 
 
 Sangallo was telling Ghirlaine of a visit he had 
 received from John Elzevir, the old recluse who lived 
 out toward Tivoli. But she heard Princess Campo- 
 basso say: 
 
 " Mme. Semadeni, you know the Caucasus 
 
 "I was born there." 
 
 "Then perhaps you can give us the facts of that 
 story about Sebastian Maure. You've heard it?" 
 
 "Who hasn't?" responded the Russian, smiling 
 languidly. 
 
 "Is it true he abducted the girl from the con- 
 vent?" 
 
 "Some one did. At the time, I was in Bulgaria." 
 
 "But you know all the thrilling details?" 
 
 "Thrilling? But really, in the Caucasus abduc- 
 tions aren't so rare. Besides, this young woman 
 wasn't to take the veil. Her parents had merely put 
 her away because she seemed skittish. Her fiance 
 didn't please her, I understand. Just before the wed- 
 ding-day, she managed to run off with the stranger.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 127 
 
 Perhaps he'd promised to. show her Paris ! When one 
 is young, it's astonishing what trifling fancies decide 
 the future." 
 
 "But you're spoiling all the romance! At least, 
 don't tell me they weren't pursued." 
 
 "Oh, as much as you wish of that. Mountain 
 gorges; sun on snow; bullets splashing against the 
 rocks. The crack of rifles, and figures rolling down 
 distant hillsides like little brown bowlders. Sore 
 feet; aching limbs; dirty faces swathed in bandages, 
 above empty bandoliers. He started, I think, with a 
 dozen men, and ended with three. Afesta for vult- 
 ures, that elopement!" 
 
 "How wonderfully you tell it!" 
 
 "I know the country." 
 
 "And what became of her?" 
 
 "Who can say? Perhaps they were married, she 
 and that Whoever-he-was. Indeed, why not? One 
 ought to give every one the benefit of the doubt, till 
 the contrary's proved. Am I right, Signore San- 
 gallo?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "How incredible it all seems," said Donna Letizia, 
 looking round as if waking out of a dream. 
 
 "It's a question of locality. The atmosphere of 
 different places impels different sorts of conduct. In 
 the Caucasus, such things often take a violent turn. 
 Here, they remain surreptitious. One is always in- 
 fluenced, more or less, by environment. What's ex- 
 travagant in Rome becomes conventional in the 
 wilds."
 
 128 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 But Princess Betty, gazing into space, exclaimed: 
 
 "All the same, that's the essence of romance! 
 Hardship, peril, the fear of death, for the sake of 
 passion! How much we miss of emotion, we civili- 
 sees! To be seized, to be carried away, in a hail of 
 bullets, from the monotone of ordered life, by some 
 man who is really strong " 
 
 Stopping short, she recovered herself with a laugh. 
 
 "After all, one would miss the luxuries!" 
 
 "And possibly the necessities," Mme. Semadeni 
 assented. "Where does one smoke in this house?" 
 
 "Follow me. I know all the corners unless 
 they're filled with flirters. Come along, Ghirlaine, 
 and tell us about poor Tito." 
 
 But she bade them good-by. 
 
 She felt that she could no longer breathe in that 
 rose-colored place. The flowers were drooping. 
 The air had taken on a sickening sweetness. And 
 this aroma seemed derived less from the mingled 
 scents of all those elegant toilettes than from a 
 subtle, yet pervading carnality. 
 
 She told herself she was overwrought. The men- 
 tal attitude of a few ought not to make her unjust to 
 the rest. But it was as if, in these close-screened 
 rooms, misty with jewels, rich fabrics, and painted 
 lips, there was spreading to every heart a contagion 
 of cynicism, duplicity, and spiritual decay. 
 
 Again there rose before her a vision of noble trees 
 against cold skies, far removed from the corruption 
 of ancient cities. . . . 
 
 She gained the vestibule. But Sangallo appeared
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 129 
 
 beside her, helped her -into her fur coat, and called 
 for her motor-car. Then, taking her hand, he said, 
 with his gentle smile : 
 
 "I sha'n't see you again. I prefer to remember 
 you as you seem to me at this moment. Even 
 though you're only half right. Even though you're 
 setting out rather blindly, in consequence. But 
 blindly or not, I feel that you'll find what you're 
 hunting for. You have the look of one to whom the 
 truth, and all its mysterious rewards, must be re- 
 vealed." 
 
 He paused. Amid that hurly-burly, his face grew 
 vacant in speculation. 
 
 "I want you to know that I'm always at your ser- 
 vice. At the service of your happiness and your 
 welfare. That's not one of those phrases of courtesy, 
 which mean nothing, because they're not likely to 
 lead to anything. Some day, I may be able to help 
 you toward something that you desire? . . 
 
 "So," he concluded, rousing himself, "you may 
 count on me, as we romancers are often tempted to 
 write, 'till the death.'" 
 
 His smile returned. But there was a hint of 
 moisture in his eyes. She responded, in tones that 
 were slightly unsteady: 
 
 "I'm very proud to think you let me count on you 
 so. There's no one I'd rather have for a friend." 
 
 "We have been simpatica, haven't we? Well, 
 well good luck, and all the happiness in the world." 
 
 "And for you, success in all the fine work you have 
 in mind. Even though, as I understand, you'd do 
 away with the churches!"
 
 130 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 " I wouldn't do away with them. I'd increase them. 
 I'd have one built in every heart. . . . Not good-by! 
 We'll meet again, one of these days. A rivederla." 
 
 "A rivederla amico mio" 
 
 "You've learned my language at last!" 
 
 "Only those words, I think. They were an in- 
 spiration." 
 
 "They're enough." 
 
 He kissed her hand. She entered the motor-car, 
 and departed. 
 
 She let down all the windows of the limousine, and 
 told the chauffeur to drive fast, at random. The 
 automobile rushed forward into the evening fog. 
 
 Lights were springing up. Vehicles were blotted 
 against the bright shop-windows. Palaces towered 
 into the mist, gaunt ruins emerged, mediaeval fagades 
 aglitter with gold mosaics, splotched walls hung with 
 ragged linen, the cypresses of some princely garden, 
 rising above a gate set with broken statues. 
 
 The air was thick with the exhalation of all these 
 old and crumbling things. From the mouths of alley- 
 ways, in the stagnant depths of which the very odors 
 of dead centuries seemed embalmed, there issued a 
 pestilential, dispiriting breath. Was not this ground, 
 so often soaked with blood and tears, yielding up its 
 indisinfectable miasma? 
 
 Her instinct was that of a nation still young, full of 
 vigor, impatient of the old. She perceived in these 
 surroundings the essential poison of progress. She 
 realized the impossibility of health in the midst of so 
 much that was dead. 
 
 To sweep away the old, to purify the spot where so
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 131 
 
 long it had lain decaying-! Or, if that was not possi- 
 ble, to escape, as if from a plague! 
 
 True life lay far away! . . . 
 
 But the walls enveloped her, black, luminous with 
 the sweat of an enfeebled antiquity. She saw the 
 portico of a humble church. The quilt swung back 
 from the door. In the light of the lantern, Andreas 
 Romanovitch came forth. His eyes were swollen 
 from weeping. He went away dragging his feet. 
 She shrank back in the limousine. 
 
 "Home!" 
 
 The automobile left the alleys, flashed across pi- 
 azzas, plunged into the Corso. 
 
 The fashionable hour had not yet ended. The nar- 
 row sidewalks were crowded. The roadway was 
 blocked by traffic. Motor-radiators adorned with 
 brass images of Saint Christopher, silver harness, 
 crested doors, furs, orchids, women's white faces, 
 moved past in the light that gushed out of show 
 windows, above the busbies and helmets of saunter- 
 ing officers. In an old-fashioned victoria, beside an 
 elderly woman-companion, sat little Donna Dora, 
 pale midst her sables, wide-eyed, ingenuous, child- 
 like. To Ghirlaine she resembled a lily passing un- 
 harmed through the heat of a furnace. 
 
 "I'm not myself! . . ." 
 
 She reached the hotel. In her apartment she 
 found a letter from Lady Glastenwold: 
 
 Lemster died to-day. I'm of for England. I tried to 
 find you and say good-by. But your aunt says you're fol- 
 lowing .
 
 132 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 The letter dropped from her hand. Depression 
 invaded her. 
 
 This death, which had been the price of the full 
 measure of her happiness, brought her only remorse. 
 How heartless, now, all those dreams she had 
 woven! 
 
 She remembered the girl in England, whom Vin- 
 cent had once "thought he loved," who doubtless 
 loved him still. 
 
 What could one hope for, from a future built on 
 such things? A man's life, and the tears of a 
 woman! Bad omens. . . . 
 
 She looked out into the mist. 
 
 "But I have my own needs, of heart and soul!" 
 
 Yet the air seemed heavier still, as if with an im- 
 measurable reproach.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IF Sebastian Maure had glanced over the Italic 
 next morning, or the number of the Garnet Mondain 
 which appeared the day after, he would have read 
 that Ghirlaine was leaving Rome. If, during those 
 two days, he had entered the Chess Club, the Skating 
 Club, the winter garden of the Excelsior, a little 
 sooner or later, he might have heard this news re- 
 peated. Tito, whom he found in bed in a plaster 
 jacket, talked of nothing but aeroplanes, the new 
 French uniforms, and a Spanish dancer at the Salone 
 Margherita, whose impudent performances he was 
 going to miss. Even Andreas Romanovitch could 
 not enlighten him. For Andreas, according to his 
 valet, had vanished from town for "a promenade in 
 the country." 
 
 Moreover, such tattle was hardly to have been ex- 
 pected in the gloomy palace where, finally, Sebastian 
 went to call on Prince Torquato. 
 
 This aged eccentric had a rugged bald head, a 
 hooked nose, and a yellow, arrogant visage out of 
 which peered, with a sort of dim fierceness, the eyes 
 of a dying eagle. He believed implicitly that his 
 house was descended from the Roman Torquatus 
 who had slain a barbarian king in the Gaulish in- 
 vasion. Long contemplation of this unique gran- 
 deur had brought him to look on himself as the last 
 
 133
 
 134 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 ancient the sole surviving spirit of the dead past. 
 
 It was one of his delusions that he was the logical 
 heir to all the relics of those first shadowy ancestors of 
 his race. Sometimes, at night, he hobbled out to 
 brood over the Forum, which he permitted "these 
 moderns" to meddle with, but which really belonged 
 to him alone. There were even those who said that 
 in some recess of his palace rose the last pagan altar. 
 There a thin flame still burned to Mars, while the 
 silence that fell from those vast walls was broken 
 now and then by prayers in the primitive dialect of 
 the Salii. 
 
 But if he was intolerant of the religion which had 
 supplanted that one, he felt, at least, no intolerance 
 toward the irreligion of Sebastian Maure. In the 
 latter, he seemed to discern the fierce appetency and 
 ruthlessness that had shaped the splendor of ancient 
 Rome. He felt for this foreigner, in consequence, a 
 singular sympathy. 
 
 Now, however, the old Prince had evidently begun 
 to crumble in earnest. At first, he could not remem- 
 ber his visitor. Then, at mention of Leone's name, 
 he maintained a blank face, while murmuring: 
 
 "You know, my friend, I have little acquaintance 
 among these upstarts who infest our city to-day." 
 
 "But I'm talking about your grandson," Sebastian 
 explained. 
 
 "Ah, my grandson!" A look of dull suffering ap- 
 peared on his face, as he sighed: 
 
 "Do you know you happen to live in an extraor- 
 dinary age? You shall see the end of Us. ..."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 135 
 
 They were sitting in an immense room of unusual 
 height, cold, damp, and dim, for all the sunshine 
 blazing out of doors beyond the bolted shutters. 
 The floor was paved in concentric patterns with red 
 and yellow tiles worn glossy by many generations of 
 the Torquati. The walls were covered with rotted 
 leather, painted and gilded in designs of mediaeval 
 naivete. The shadowy ceiling showed intersecting 
 beams, thickly carved with shields, whereon glim- 
 mered the arms of related families long since extinct. 
 
 Indeed, this grim old palace still maintained the 
 quaint, uncomfortable grandeur of its youth, when 
 torches blazed about its gates, when casements were 
 often marks for cross-bow bolts, when swords went 
 to work on its winding stairways, and trap-doors 
 yawned suddenly, to send hated visitors tumbling 
 into an oubliette full of bones and rusty armor. To- 
 day, this old Prince, tilting the window-shutters, 
 could look out into the street as if upon a different 
 world. 
 
 Now, his face full of animosity, he peered down, 
 through the wooden slats, at the passers-by. The 
 words escaped him: 
 
 "What degenerates!" 
 
 He motioned Sebastian to join him at the window. 
 
 "Per Bacco! Those women in their carriages! 
 Their high heels! Their corsets! Their ridiculous 
 hats! Their feet crippled by their stilted shoes! 
 Their teeth ruined by sugar and soft food! Their in- 
 dolent bodies feebler than a child's! All their vital 
 organs squeezed into a half -lifeless mass ! But if the 
 Venus of Milo were to appear before them in the flesh,
 
 136 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 how they'd laugh at her! Yet they're the respon- 
 sible ones those dolls, who give birth to the hered- 
 itary masters of all this degenerate humanity!" 
 
 Sebastian, who was able to see both sides of at 
 least a good many questions, thought this apportion- 
 ment of responsibility a trifle unfair. 
 
 He responded, with a short laugh: 
 
 "I suppose it's my famous perversity that sympa- 
 thizes with all this twentieth-century artificiality? 
 As a matter of fact, do you think that men who had 
 grown accustomed to the allure of this type would 
 ever be content to return to the other?" 
 
 "I am not thinking of one's personal satisfaction, 
 but of one's descendants." 
 
 "Ah, one's descendants!" 
 
 "And you? Do you never think of those who may 
 follow you?" 
 
 Sebastian shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I fancy I rather lack the paternal instinct. I'm 
 not much on children. ..." He added, his dark 
 skin slightly flushing, "Perhaps I should say that 
 children aren't much for me. ..." 
 
 But Prince Torquato was not listening. Pres- 
 ently, taking Sebastian by the arm, he said, in a 
 tremulous voice: 
 
 "Do you know, sometimes, at night, I have a curi- 
 ous dream. I seem to be standing on the Palatine 
 Hill. Rome lies before me in the moonlight. But 
 all is changing, in a mist of altering outlines. These 
 hideous modern buildings dissolve. Turrets and bat- 
 tlements take their places. The battlements give 
 place to ruins, the ruins to great glistening temples
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 137 
 
 and porticos. Then those forests of columns melt 
 into humbler structures, of freestone, roughly chis- 
 elled, and these to huts. And I'm looking down on 
 the beginnings of my city. 
 
 * ' And I see another race of women. Strong bodies, 
 supple, agile, buoyant, shining with health! Under 
 loose garments, firm torsos, that support themselves 
 with beautiful muscles! Straight backs, massive 
 limbs, broad hips ready for their natural burdens! 
 Firm, flat feet, with toes as individual as fingers, that 
 grip the earth as if they loved it ! ... And the high 
 head of the water-carriers! The long stride! The 
 vigorous, undulating grace of bodies that know labor! 
 The innocent, casual nudity of an age that was not 
 ashamed of nakedness, because its nakedness was not 
 degenerate! . . . 
 
 " So I seem to see the women of Romulus's Rome. 
 The mothers of her vigor, whom we stole, that day, 
 from the Sabines. Whom we stole because we needed 
 them. Because we wanted them. Because our nat- 
 ures knew nothing of pity, or foreign opinion, or fear, 
 when these things were balanced against our desires. 
 Because we were men indeed, the Children of the 
 Wolf, predatory, ruthless, invincible, as man was 
 meant to be. ... 
 
 "But time crumbles everything. ..." 
 
 He returned to his chair, and sat down feebly. 
 And, while his dim gaze roved round the cornices, he 
 concluded, in husky tones: 
 
 "Rome is finished! It's the last pulse-beat of the 
 old that's dying!"
 
 138 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Was it not true? 
 
 Outside the tall windows, the modern world was 
 racketting tram-car bells, motor-horns, the cries of 
 news- venders, and, from the suburbs, faintly, factory 
 whistles. Those sounds invaded the silence of this 
 cold dismal place, where all was immobility and age. 
 They had the insistence of an imperious warning. 
 
 They stood for activity of thought, for labor with 
 aspiration, for a new order of life, a new programme 
 of human progress. Beginning far off, in lands teem- 
 ing with vigor and spiritual enfranchisement, they 
 had sent their echoes even thus far. They sounded 
 about the Seven Hills, round the ruins of despots' 
 palaces, round basilicas that had been the temples of 
 pagan gods, round the houses of a nobility still deaf 
 to the note of universal brotherhood in that din, 
 round hovels of the poor w r ho were too deep in the 
 mire to realize, yet, that such sounds were meant also 
 for them. Even to Rome, so long the heart of the 
 world's rapacity and injustice, so long the field of 
 ruins, languor, stagnation, came that clamor of a 
 humanity struggling into a union of science and 
 brotherhood. It penetrated this room, where these 
 two sat listening. 
 
 But while one, with a heavy gesture, acquiesced 
 to defeat, the other, squaring his shoulders, defied 
 anew that spirit so inimical to all his instincts and 
 convictions. And presently it seemed to him that 
 all the world's enmity and opposition were personi- 
 fied in her. . . . 
 
 Yet that was the woman he desired, despite her
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 139 
 
 purity, her idealism, herxlear gaze raised to the Be- 
 yond, informed with the certainty of imperishable 
 things! And all the obstacles that rose between 
 them only intensified his determination. 
 
 Still, passion was not going to tempt him into 
 rashness. He knew when subtlety was better than 
 violence. There are few repulsions that time cannot 
 abate, if time is aided by ingenious persuasion. 
 
 He counted on at least a month more with her in 
 Rome. He believed he could afford to go slowly. 
 
 Thus, on the morning when she set out for Naples, 
 chance impelled him to spend the day in the saddle, 
 outside the walls. 
 
 He rode eastward across the brown plain marked 
 here and there with crumbling mediaeval towers, and 
 broken arches of ancient aqueducts. Perhaps, from 
 a hilltop, he saw the train that was bearing her away. 
 But the mountains called him on, their warm slopes, 
 rising above a dull-green haze of olive-groves, set 
 with tiny sun-bright villages. 
 
 He had nearly reached Tivoli, when the heat ap- 
 prised him that it was time to rest his horse and 
 lunch. Some distance off, on a hillside, a modest 
 farm appeared, sheltered midst orange-groves. A 
 flower-garden blazed round a rustic pergola. Bee- 
 hives clustered beyond. Thither he turned, expect- 
 ing a peasant's welcome. But beneath the trees he 
 came on an old, frail foreigner, with white beard, 
 translucent skin, and deep-set eyes that looked forth 
 in profound benignity. Sebastian drew rein. 
 
 "Pardon me for this intrusion. I've evidently 
 made a mistake."
 
 140 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 " How so?" the old man asked him, smiling. " You 
 were hunting for rest and food, were you not, Mr. 
 Maure?" 
 
 "It appears, sir, that I have met you somewhere." 
 
 "I saw you at Princess Campobasso's ball," the 
 other responded. Apparently he was not conscious 
 of the incongruity of that speech, as it issued from 
 the lips of an old fellow whose clothes were thread- 
 bare and earthy, who stood before a home so small, 
 so humble, and so still. 
 
 "I am John Elzevir," he added. 
 
 "The fact that I'm a trespasser ' 
 
 "This house belongs to you as much as it does to 
 me." 
 
 "Oh? I presumed you lived here." 
 
 "As far as that goes, so I do. . . . Shall we see to 
 your horse? For yourself, I don't say a filet de sole 
 Mornay, a fioulet saute Grand Due, or a bottle of 
 Romance Conti 1856. After all, hunger is still the 
 best sauce." 
 
 Sebastian dismounted. 
 
 "Undoubtedly!" he said, with a laugh. "There 
 was once a day when I found rare dog a surprising 
 delicacy. Another when I began to broil a lizard 
 with the gayest anticipations. But the light of the 
 lire brought me a soft-nosed bullet, and I had to give 
 up. Cooked lizard, perhaps. But raw? One must 
 draw the line somewhere." 
 
 John Elzevir regarded him thoughtfully. 
 
 "You have had your glimpses of life, my friend." 
 
 "I've gone in search of them," Sebastian replied, 
 with a shrug. "But you, too, it seems to me?"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 141 
 
 "We all stumble through the rudiments of educa- 
 tion," the old man said and led the way to the house. 
 
 They lunched in the kitchen, on cheese, gray 
 bread, and a flask of Orvieto, which the host did not 
 touch. At that repast, a peasant farm-hand kept 
 them company, gaunt, swarthy, his bare arms 
 knotted like olive-branches, silent, voracious. Occa- 
 sionally, his large eyes, which seemed a trifle clouded 
 and wild, turned to John Elzevir in dog-like devotion. 
 
 The latter explained in English: 
 
 "Ten years ago he killed his master, who had 
 treated him badly. While he was lying in prison, his 
 children died of cholera, and his wife ran away with 
 another man. When he came out, he was all for 
 being a brigand. We had many long talks on that 
 subject." 
 
 "And when do you expect the vendetta?" 
 
 John Elzevir, turning to the Italian, said: 
 
 "Our friend wants to know how soon you're going 
 to kill Jacopo and Mimmi?" 
 
 The farm-hand stared solemnly at Sebastian. 
 
 "Signore, I'm not ashamed any more to let them 
 live. When I go to the village, the boys make fun 
 of me. They offer to lend me a knife. But I tell 
 them Domeneddio prefers to attend to those two 
 Himself, after they've learned the little lesson He's 
 set them. For me to interrupt it would be dis- 
 courteous to Him. Is it not so?" 
 
 "Sicuro surely," John Elzevir remarked. 
 
 " Eh, so I say, because you've instructed me. But 
 the boys in the village think I'm mad."
 
 142 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "They haven't yet learned their own little les- 
 son," the old man said. 
 
 "They say I am mad through living here." 
 
 "You'll be madder still before we're through." 
 
 "Eh, by God's help," the man assented, with the 
 grave smile of a child. 
 
 John Elzevir looked at Sebastian thoughtfully. 
 At last, he mused: 
 
 "The poor are wonderful, aren't they? . . . Per- 
 haps you're not well acquainted with them? So 
 many aren't. One misses so much that way. They 
 have such a lot to tell. There are countless mar- 
 vellous things that only the poor can tell us. Has it 
 really never seemed so to you?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Ah. Will you have more wine? Then let's go 
 out and see the bees." 
 
 Sebastian lighted a cigar. They walked down into 
 the garden. 
 
 Roses were everywhere, red, pink, white, yellow, 
 orange-colored. Beside the path, they gathered in 
 great masses, to climb the tree-trunks, and to load 
 all the branches with their gorgeousness. The soft 
 air was redolent of their breath. And through that 
 perfumed silence, from box-hives each painted with 
 its own heraldic-looking designs and colors, the bees 
 came humming, to assist, in their ceaseless industry, 
 at the procreation of all that beauty. 
 
 How still, how pure, how lovely, this retreat! 
 Sebastian thought of Brian Dungannan's words, 
 "Have you never dreamed of going away, hand in
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 143 
 
 hand with some one, into- the woods forever? Every- 
 thing is there. ..." 
 
 But beyond the tops of the olive-trees that filled 
 the slope, the plain rolled out its empty leagues, in 
 sunny ambiguity, toward Rome. And on the hori- 
 zon, trembling as if between earth and heaven, ap- 
 peared a long mist of roofs, and, above, one dome of 
 almost imperceptible blue. 
 
 John Elzevir said: 
 
 "Do you know those words of Vassari's, 'I ex- 
 perienced how much more profitable is sweet quiet 
 than the clamor of the piazza and the court.' Off 
 there, how different, eh?" 
 
 "The great cities are what they have always 
 been." 
 
 "And it's in the city, hi what the city finally pro- 
 duces, that the downfall of nations has invariably 
 begun. Still, we must always have great cities. 
 Perhaps their salvation lies in the new spirit dawning 
 over them?" 
 
 "What spirit is that?" 
 
 "Of brotherhood. Of the united labor of the 
 many for the whole." 
 
 "The dream of Socialism universal mediocrity?" 
 
 ' ' No . Universal normality. ' ' 
 
 "Is slavery normal? What is despotism, if not 
 the confinement of the individual?" 
 
 "But, my friend, the weak must be protected." 
 
 "Nature says otherwise." 
 
 "Then you would have men live only to gratify 
 their old appetite for mastery?"
 
 144 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "If they did, they would be natural again." 
 
 "And what of charity, gentleness, self-sacrifice, 
 that humanity has learned through so much travail? " 
 
 "Those things have brought nothing but weak- 
 ness." 
 
 The old recluse slowly shook his head, then gazed 
 at the other with kindly curiosity. 
 
 "You aren't a bit religious?" 
 
 "I've seen the ruins of Babylon, and Thebes, and 
 Carthage, and Athens, and Rome." 
 
 "But the religion of to-day is hardly comparable 
 with the rest." 
 
 "It's the same in this it's built on assertions that 
 can never be proved by science or logic." 
 
 "It's built on the satisfaction that nothing but its 
 teachings can give the soul." 
 
 "Oh, if we're going to discuss the soul," Sebastian 
 laughed, "I must leave the rest to you!" 
 
 The silence was threaded by the hum of passing 
 bees. John Elzevir said: 
 
 "Indeed, I'm discourteous to wrangle with my 
 guest." 
 
 "On the contrary, I'm the discourteous one. For 
 I see my ideas pain you." 
 
 "Yes; I admit that. They strike one like a cold 
 wind, and chill the heart. My son, you are missing 
 so much!" 
 
 "What a man has never known he has never 
 missed." 
 
 "There I think you are out." 
 
 And, after a while :
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 145 
 
 "Let us sit down under the trees. I'll you tell a 
 story." 
 
 They seated themselves upon a bench, in the shade 
 of massed orange-leaves and roses. While the bees 
 buzzed round them the old man said: 
 
 "As a boy, I was a mixture of spirituality and 
 earthliness & youth like any other; or almost any 
 other. I was rich, my own master, with all the world 
 before me. And I plunged into the world, into its 
 crowded, splendid places. I was drawn toward that 
 great conflagration which hangs over the capitals of 
 nations as naturally as a moth is drawn toward a 
 lamp. Youth is so fearless, so sure of itself, and of 
 the future! I didn't know that I was one of the 
 weak, whom you would wipe out, to give more 
 room to those you call the strong. . . . 
 
 "No one told me what was bound to follow. I 
 had everything to learn for myself. I learned 
 through much suffering. Through repugnance, re- 
 morse, and fear of God's vengeance, which I still 
 expected was destined to take place somewhere in 
 the remote future though it was going on even then. 
 
 "But there were two natures hi me still, as there 
 are in most all of humanity, clear to the end. So I 
 couldn't escape from one life into the other. Earth 
 was always drawing me back from heaven. 
 
 "I didn't know that God doesn't expect men to be 
 too good. That He doesn't need an act of complete 
 renunciation to be pleased. That He's satisfied just 
 by the intention of to-day, even though He knows 
 it's going to be broken to-morrow.
 
 146 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "I wanted to escape to Him completely. Because 
 I was too weak to do so, I suffered terribly. I saw, 
 at last, that I couldn't free myself. And I fell to 
 wondering what influence outside myself could free 
 me? 
 
 "In mankind, even while we're striving to climb 
 upward, there clings to us an ineradicable material- 
 ism. ... So I dreamed of a woman, of such mingled 
 spirituality and physical beauty that, through her, I 
 might effect a compromise, that would be pleasing to 
 Nature, and so to God. 
 
 "But I never found her. Many others I found, 
 in many places but not that one. So there is some- 
 thing that one man has never known, and yet has 
 missed! . . . 
 
 "Has she existed? I've seen her come to others. 
 I've learned that my longing for her must have been 
 the true inspiration. It wasn't cowardice to desire 
 such a compromise. For it is not only folly, but 
 even wrong, to try to deprive life of its material part, 
 in order to give more play to the spiritual. 
 
 "In fact, I've perceived lives round me come to 
 their fulness only by such means. Man's but half of 
 himself. Woman's the other half. That is Nature. 
 And through the labyrinths of chance, amid the chaos 
 of momentary passions and sordid disillusionments, 
 man is always groping for that other half of himself 
 sometimes searching, though he may not know it, in 
 the very mire of debauchery, for the inestimable 
 jewel. . . . That jewel many never find. But others 
 find it. And in their hands it becomes a talisman,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 147 
 
 to unlock all the questions we need to have answered 
 in this life. . . . 
 
 "When one doesn't find the real thing, one gets 
 along with makeshifts. And, finally, I who couldn't 
 find peace on the bosom of that other part of me, 
 was drawn into the bosom of Nature, that great 
 maternal force, of infinite tenderness, which would 
 cure us of so many miseries if we'd only let her. 
 
 "I sought solitude. And here I am. 
 
 "Of course, it was an admission of defeat. I'd 
 been beaten on that swarming battle-field. I'd drawn 
 off with little honor. I still envy those strong enough 
 to find their victory there. But we can't all be 
 strong. . . . And indeed, I hardly had the strength 
 even to escape, till age began to dull the brilliancy of 
 temptation. Many saints are made like that: but 
 few are ready to confess it. 
 
 "For years I'd seen all the cities of the world, and 
 the glory of them. I'd searched them from top to 
 bottom from the halls hung with riches to the 
 ignoble corners that are ashamed of sunlight. Pos- 
 sibly, when I turned away at last, I hoped that she 
 might rise up from amid the flowers? But even here 
 she didn't come to me. And now I'm old. 
 
 "Elsewhere? In another youth? I think so. 
 For everything must find its complement in the end. 
 So I'm waiting. And it may be that I'm not yet fit 
 to meet her. So, while waiting, I'm preparing my- 
 self for that event. 
 
 "Here I'm learning lessons that I could never have 
 learned off there, in the stridence and confusion 
 which sets that horizon quivering. Day and night,
 
 148 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 there rises out of this unpolluted earth an ineffable 
 perfume of wisdom. Amid so much mute and subtle 
 progress, the heart must flower, too. 
 
 "I'm still very ignorant, however. The older I 
 grow, the more I glimpse that I shall never see well 
 enough to impart to others. But every day I set 
 down what's been revealed to me not through sci- 
 ence, not through logic, but through the voice of 
 Eternity, as it speaks to me, in the silence, by the lips 
 of flowers, the songs of bisects, and the stir of that 
 life beneath the sod which is never discouraged, never 
 weary of effort toward the sun. ..." 
 
 In the end, he said: 
 
 "It's a strange thing for me to talk this way. But 
 somehow I was impelled to do so. ... Will you 
 come and see how my old-fashioned blooms are get- 
 ting on? . . ." 
 
 It was late that afternoon when Sebastian entered 
 Rome. . . . 
 
 As he passed the Acqua Felice, some one hailed 
 him. He saw, in a taxicab, Ernesto Sangallo. Va- 
 lises were piled up round him. Apparently, he was 
 bound for the railroad station. The taxicab halted. 
 Sebastian rode up to it, with the words: 
 
 "Leaving town? 
 
 "For my little place in Piedmont. I seem to be 
 going stale down here. It's time for a sniff of the 
 country." 
 
 "Sorry to lose you." 
 
 "Thanks. It's just occurred to me that I may 
 not be back before you leave yourself " 
 
 "Oh, I shall hardly go for a month or two."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 149 
 
 Sangallo's clear eyes^examined the other's counte- 
 nance thoughtfully. 
 
 "Who knows? We all change our minds some- 
 times at the shortest notice. Still, I want to leave 
 you my card. If there's anything I can do for you, 
 don't hesitate to command me." 
 
 "You're more than kind," said Sebastian, storing 
 the bit of bristol away in his pocket-book like a man 
 who has just received something valuable. 
 
 "Nothing! So good-by." 
 
 "Au revoir would be more propitious." 
 
 "You're right. Besides, we shall certainly meet 
 again, before very long." 
 
 Once more he looked at Sebastian carefully, before 
 motioning to the chauffeur to proceed. 
 
 "Good luck!" 
 
 "Good luck!" 
 
 Sebastian rode on to the Grand Hotel. 
 
 In the lobby, he met Prince Campobasso. The 
 latter was bound for the rooms of the Jockey Club, 
 in the same building. When Sebastian invited him 
 into the bar, he suggested the club apartments in- 
 stead. 
 
 They entered a room illuminated by table-lamps, 
 dull-green, cream-colored pillars here and there, the 
 walls covered with old prints of famous race-horses. 
 Sitting down, they ordered whiskey-and-sodas. 
 
 Prince Campobasso was rather more self-con- 
 tained, more English, than usual. His fair, hand- 
 some face, however, was Latin enough to show that 
 beneath the mask lurked some unpleasant thoughts.
 
 150 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Sebastian wondered idly if, by any chance, he could 
 have heard part of the last week's tea-table gossip 
 concerning Princess Betty and Tito. For Rome, 
 always Argus-eyed, and furnished, like Fama, with a 
 thousand tongues, had decided that Princess Cam- 
 pobasso's long-awaited liaison was practically be- 
 gun. 
 
 But, from behind a sofa, rose a pair of melancholy 
 red eyes, which regarded them with lack-lustre blank- 
 ness. It was Andreas Romanovitch. 
 
 Sebastian grinned at him. 
 
 "I thought you were in the country." 
 
 "I was. But the country is worse than the city. 
 The country doesn't make one forget oneself. Bigre! 
 On the contrary!" 
 
 "Come out from behind that sofa. Stop giving 
 that horrid imitation of the head on the charger." 
 
 Andreas picked himself up, advanced, and flopped 
 down in a neighboring chair. As if to defy his state 
 of mind, he wore a greenish tweed suit, tan shoes with 
 toothpick toes, a cravat of canary-yellow, and a green 
 silk pocket-handkerchief. When he had wagged his 
 forked beard up and down for a while, he confessed : 
 
 "I've been envying those horses on the walls. 
 They have no consciences. What's more, they're all 
 fortunate enough to be dead." 
 
 "I was talking this afternoon to a sirupy old 
 chap who has just the remedy for your ailment. ' A 
 woman of such mingled spirituality and physical 
 beauty that a compromise might be effected, pleasing 
 to Nature, and so to God!"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 151 
 
 And, after emptying, his whiskey-and-soda down 
 his throat, Sebastian demanded: 
 
 "What could be more simple?" 
 
 "What could be more difficult! Especially, if one 
 can't even look at her any more, since she's gone 
 away!" 
 
 Sebastian inspected him for a time in perplexity. 
 
 "Who the devil are you in love with this after- 
 noon? " 
 
 "Ah, I'm not so fickle as some desperadoes of my 
 acquaintance!" 
 
 "Well, if you mean the Innocenti " 
 
 " Accidente! That creature! What do you take 
 me for? I shall never see her again! That is, un- 
 less I'm fool enough to drink champagne with my 
 dinner to-night." 
 
 "Then whom are you talking about, if it's fair to 
 ask?" 
 
 "Is it possible you don't know she left to-day, to 
 catch the Asiatic for England?" 
 
 Sebastian felt in his head a shock as if from a 
 slight explosion. The room grew dark. Everything 
 seemed whirling round. Then, gradually, his sur- 
 roundings emerged. The faces of Andreas and Don 
 Livio appeared as before. He was sure his own 
 features had not changed. 
 
 After stealthily clearing his throat, he remarked: 
 
 "How careful our Andreas is to follow the fashion, 
 even in his sentimental exertions!" 
 
 Rising, he turned to Prince Campobasso. 
 
 "Thanks for the life-saver. ..." To the other:
 
 152 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "See you later, lokanaan. . . ." 
 
 "Why, we've just sat down!" 
 
 "I've been ricling all day. I must get to a tub. 
 Till to-night, somewhere, perhaps? ..." 
 
 He went out, and gained his own apartment. 
 
 Disnisius was there, fitting studs into an evening 
 shirt. Sebastian demanded: 
 
 "How long do you need to pack?" 
 
 The man started, looked at his master's face, then 
 answered, quickly: 
 
 "An hour and a half." 
 
 "Get at it." 
 
 He tore off his riding-clothes. Disnisius, while 
 running to and fro, kept sending furtive glances at 
 him. At last: 
 
 "Shall I put the revolvers in the travelling-bags?" 
 
 "What's the matter with you? Have you gone 
 crazy? " 
 
 "Pardon, Excellency. A lapse of the mind. . . . 
 It must be in the air to-day. Something that keeps 
 reminding me of old times. ..."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 AT half-past ten that night, Sebastian Maure 
 reached Naples. At half-past twelve, from the deck 
 of an Italian steam-ship, he saw the harbor-lights 
 dwindle to the north. Next afternoon, there gath- 
 ered in the south, cloudlike on the horizon, the tawny 
 hills of Sicily. That evening he landed hi Palermo. 
 
 The Asiatic was scheduled to call there next day. 
 
 He descended at the Villa Igeia, turned in, and 
 again lay awake all night. The sun was shining, and 
 he was dozing at last, when Disnisius came to tell 
 him the ship had been sighted. At once he got up. 
 
 The last forty hours had been a sort of nightmare. 
 Sleeplessness, wild plans invented only to be baffled 
 by common-sense, rage that she was escaping so 
 easily, had worn him out. His constitution was no 
 longer adaptable to this kind of strain. He was 
 amazed to find himself, at moments, not only ex- 
 hausted, but almost witless. He had told himself 
 over and over that everything depended upon this 
 day: yet now he was hi no condition to meet such a 
 crisis. It was his first really poignant experience 
 with a revengeful Nature. 
 
 He went down into the city. The Maqueda was 
 crowded already with its beggars, touts, and impecu- 
 nious dandies. The shops displayed their pinch- 
 beck wares. Church-doors stood open. At tables 
 on the sidewalk, vacuous-looking old fellows were 
 
 153
 
 154 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 drinking their coffee. He stared at this orderly 
 scene as if it were part of a dream. Why was he 
 here? What incredible fall of luck could he be 
 trusting in? 
 
 Perhaps she would not even come ashore! 
 
 He drove to the harbor. Some distance out, the 
 Asiatic, at anchor, towered amid scows piled high 
 with lemon-crates. Round the ladder row-boats 
 clustered. Into them ladies were descending. 
 
 He entered a shabby cafe opposite the wharf, and 
 took a seat in the shadows. There he waited, hope- 
 less already, yet determined to stay, till the very last 
 moment, in the path of chance. The habitues of the 
 place were fascinated by this big, saturnine foreigner, 
 richly clad, with a scarf-pin worth a year's wages, 
 who remained hour after hour in the same attitude, 
 staring out to sea. At last, the passengers who had 
 landed, and set out gayly, for their day's excursion, 
 began to return and re-embark. He had sat there 
 from nine till six. He told a waiter to make sure of 
 the Asiatic's sailing-time. 
 
 " Signore, she is due to leave this minute. . . ." 
 
 He returned to the Villa Igeia. Disnisius had laid 
 out his evening-clothes. He bathed and changed 
 mechanically. Could it be possible that this was the 
 end? 
 
 But suppose she were not on board the Asiatic 
 after all! 
 
 He snatched up hat and overcoat, went downstairs, 
 hailed a cab, regained the water-front. The ship was 
 still at anchor. He called a boatman.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 155 
 
 "What's keeping her?." 
 
 "The lemons, Excellency. For some reason, they 
 take a devil of a while to load, do lemons! But now 
 the last scow is almost empty." 
 
 " Can you make it? " 
 
 "Eh, the Madonna has that in her pocket! Let 
 us try." 
 
 They reached the Asiatic's ladder just as sailors 
 were preparing to raise it. 
 
 He found himself on the deck. Two young ship's 
 officers were peering down into the hold, where the 
 steam-cranes were lowering the last crates out of 
 sight. But a boatswain approached him with a ques- 
 tioning look. Sebastian nodded good-evening, asked 
 if dinner was on, and went into the smoke-room. 
 It was deserted. A steward brought him a cocktail. 
 
 "A nice day, sir. Been ashore, sir?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "A dirty town, sir. No wonder you're not quite 
 ready for dinner, sir, if I may take the liberty." 
 
 "Bring me a passenger list." 
 
 Her name was the first he saw. 
 
 The ship was on the point of starting. Still he 
 remained. A force outside himself seemed to be 
 keeping him here. He began to feel the relief of a 
 miraculous reprieve. She was not leaving him! It 
 was not finished ! Even if she shut herself up in her 
 cabin as soon as aware of his presence, in a way they 
 would still be together a little while longer. . . . 
 
 His body gradually relaxed. The abnormal ten- 
 sion of his nerves abated. He ordered another cock-
 
 156 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 tail. Five minutes later he realized, with drowsy 
 satisfaction, that the Asiatic had put to sea. . . . 
 
 Twilight fell rapidly. Dinner must be nearly over? 
 He went out and climbed a staircase to the boat-deck. 
 
 The breeze was soft and warm, the dim sea calm. 
 In the black distance, Palermo glittered under a pale- 
 yellow nimbus. And the great ship, trembling all 
 over, was separating him, at the same time, from his 
 hopelessness. 
 
 "This isn't for nothing, this impulse!" 
 
 No one came near the bench on which he had 
 stretched himself. No one, in fact, could be aware 
 that an extra passenger was aboard. He ought to 
 go down soon, however, and see about a cabin. . . . 
 The best ones were sure to be taken. . . . The bar- 
 ber would probably have nothing to sell him but deck 
 shoes and collars. . . . He was going to miss Dis- 
 nisius. . . . 
 
 All this bothered him so little that he fell asleep 
 while thinking of it. 
 
 Six bells awoke him. Decidedly, a bed would be 
 more comfortable! But he thought it advisable, 
 before visiting the office, to explore his pocket-book. 
 The first thing he chanced on was Sangallo's visiting- 
 card. 
 
 After a time, smiling grimly, he scribbled across 
 the back of it: 
 
 // you're still about, you might like to hear the absurd 
 adventure that makes us shipmates. Could you find your 
 way to the port side of the boat-deck? I'll try to excuse my- 
 self, there, for putting you to the trouble.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 157 
 
 A sailor was passing, v Sebastian Maure instructed 
 him to send the card below. 
 
 And after a while he saw her approaching through 
 the shadows. 
 
 She wore a fragile dress of flower-sprinkled gauze 
 laid over amber satin. Her neck was bare, but round 
 one wrist she had twisted a chain of diamonds. 
 From her blonde tresses to her golden slippers she 
 was so fair a thing, so stored with radiance waiting 
 for the chance to show forth all x dazzling, that in the 
 very obscurity of the boat-deck she appeared to shine 
 with a mysterious effulgence. 
 
 To him she seemed, after all those hours of anxiety 
 and despair, more beautiful, more precious, more 
 necessary than ever before. He could not move or 
 speak, while contemplating this inestimable treasure 
 of the flesh, which he desired with all the violence of 
 his nature. 
 
 It was she who, after a moment of amazement, 
 ended the silence. Her voice was strange: 
 
 "Where is Signore Sangallo?" 
 
 "Sangallo! Is he aboard, too?" 
 
 "I have his card " 
 
 She held it up. He took it out of her hand. 
 
 "Permit me." 
 
 In the dim light, he made a pretence of examining it. 
 
 "What a strange thing! I suppose I can never 
 persuade you this wasn't intentional. . . ." 
 
 After a silence, she faltered: 
 
 "You wrote that?" 
 
 " Certainly."
 
 158 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 " And counted on my coming here, to talk to you? " 
 
 "Ihoped- 
 
 "You expect me to believe this!" 
 
 "You could come for Sangallo." 
 
 "It's always safe to come to Sangallo. He is a 
 friend." 
 
 "And must I still be an enemy?" 
 
 She made no reply. He went on: 
 
 "Must you always think of me so? Don't you 
 realize that one owes to the most unwelcome love 
 something better than utter cruelty? With all the 
 beauty that covers you and fills you, how is there 
 room in you for this inhumanity? " 
 
 "You can hardly realize what you're saying. I'm 
 engaged to marry Lieutenant Pamfort " 
 
 "He's not that any longer. He's Lord Lemster 
 now." 
 
 "If you prefer. ..." She clenched her hands, 
 then shot forth at him: 
 
 "It seems incredible that I should have to remind 
 you of it! Must I go still farther? Must I tell you 
 in so many words other reasons why I've always 
 avoided you?" 
 
 He looked at her heavily, without replying. She 
 turned to go. But he put out his hand. 
 
 "One moment. Hear me to-night. I'll promise 
 never to trouble you again." 
 
 "I think we've said enough to each other already 
 to last forever." 
 
 "Enough! Our lives won't be long enough for all 
 I could say to you!"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 159 
 
 He came a step nearer. Her pride prevented her 
 from retreating. She heard him saying: 
 
 "Up there, when I learned you were gone, it 
 seemed that everything vital in me had escaped with 
 you. I felt that my very life had been torn from me. 
 That I must follow after, and get it back. Or else, 
 die on my feet, like a man whose heart has been torn 
 out, and who makes one last movement, as if to 
 clutch it back into his breast, and go on living. I 
 came here in a sort of delirium, rushing through 
 shadows, blinded by despair, but struggling on to- 
 ward the light that was vanishing before me, that 
 wouldn't stay, that another hour was going to ex- 
 tinguish forever. ... I threw away the last rem- 
 nant of my reason for one more sight of you, for one 
 more sound of your voice, for one more glimpse of 
 what I couldn't have. ..." 
 
 He had begun with phrases; he ended with his voice 
 shaking, his body trembling, his whole being wracked 
 by the realization that it was the truth. She, for 
 her part, had not moved while his lips poured out 
 those words with all the flexibility and fire of youth. 
 Her eyes were fixed on him in wonder. Despite her- 
 self, she was fascinated by this volcanic passion, the 
 like of which she had never perceived before, which 
 she had caused. 
 
 With a great effort, he recovered himself. He 
 knew when to change his tone. In a different voice, 
 he said: 
 
 "But just now, when I saw you coming through 
 the darkness, a strange peace invaded me. All my 
 sufferings were worth that moment. I saw you
 
 160 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 again. I heard you speak. I told you once more 
 what you'd been to me, and always would be. Even 
 the hopelessness of this hour is touched by happiness. 
 Even your antipathy contains its sweetness, because 
 your lips express it. And now, every minute I hold 
 you here is just another ray to light the future. . . . 
 Those moments! How few of them there have been! 
 How full of your enmity! And yet, how precious! 
 They're all I have. They're going to be my riches. 
 Is it any wonder I want one more to hoard?" 
 
 His deep voice was vibrant with the emotion of a 
 man who could express admirably, at the same time, 
 strength and pathos. But he knew that silence was 
 dangerous to illusion. He went on: 
 
 "You have your idea of love. You're sure that 
 idea's not mine. You have your ideal of devotion. 
 You credit me with no ideals at all. But what love, 
 in the whole world, could be stronger than this one, 
 that's brought me here, stripped of all sanity, for a 
 look of scorn, a word of anger, a memory of un- 
 changed hostility? . . . 
 
 "No; there's only one kind of love the love of a 
 man for a woman. But it has many degrees of 
 strength and frankness. And sometimes the clear 
 light of truth blinds unaccustomed eyes. . . . 
 
 "My great crime in life has always been that I've 
 revealed myself. Yet if I'd been ever so subtle, I 
 couldn't have disguised this. It was an avalanche 
 that your mere approach set moving. ... But the 
 one who caused it might feel without shame a little 
 pity on account of it." 
 
 Her pulse beat fast. Despite herself, she was
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 161 
 
 stirred throughout. Her femininity was unable to 
 ignore such homage. 
 
 She was still conscious of the countless detriments 
 that made him hateful to her. She was still, perhaps, 
 but half convinced of his full sincerity. Yet she felt 
 her judgment, and even her repugnance, weakened 
 by those accents thrilling with sadness and desire, by 
 that face transformed in the starlight, and by the 
 influence of the place and the hour the illimitable 
 poetry of the heavens, the mystery of the sea. The 
 sea! Its eternal savor of freedom, of lawlessness, of 
 Nature! Maybe it was that which, penetrating her 
 heart, made her more nearly understand it all. There 
 came to her a shock of illogical compunction. She 
 made a quick gesture of distress. The half-inarticu- 
 late cry escaped her: 
 
 "Oh, but why! . . ." 
 
 "The world is made up of riddles like that," he 
 answered. 
 
 But his heart leaped. He saw that for the mo- 
 ment he had disarmed her. To-morrow, daylight 
 would bring back her clear perception, the old dis- 
 trust. Thereafter, every hour would bear her nearer 
 to the influence of the other. These advantages, of 
 surprise and strangeness, of eloquence and nature, 
 would never reoccur for him in like combination. 
 It was the hour to risk everything. 
 
 While groping for the means, he called to his aid 
 the seductiveness of their surroundings. Pointing 
 into the darkness, southward: 
 
 " See how the very elements combine for that eter-
 
 162 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 nal deception! This breeze, full of soft odors, brings 
 a promise of felicity. It comes from Africa, from 
 regions vivid with color, dissolved in sunshine, or, in 
 the moonlight, of an enchantment to make real that 
 old dream of Aphrodite, stooping from the heavens, 
 wrapped in stars, to spread the perfume of her breath 
 to men. It comes to us across her waves, across the 
 hills of Sicily that land where men and women, and 
 the very rocks, are always burning from their adja- 
 cency to her. Roses are in it, black roses against 
 the stars, their beauty half blotting out that far- 
 off splendor, yet letting through their petals such 
 glimpses of heaven as one could never catch, if they 
 weren't trembling between. ' Come back/ it whis- 
 pers. ' Come back to the simplicity of what I offer. 
 To what springs up, in its full flower, nowhere else so 
 swiftly and magnificently. To what's more precious 
 here, in its completeness, than all the world! ...".' 
 But the ship takes us on. The sea widens. And 
 soon that breeze will fall behind, to give place to 
 northern winds, with different messages. . . . That's 
 life. One hears a call, and one is borne away." 
 
 He turned to lean on the rail that ran along the 
 deck, between the life-boats, as a protection against 
 the edge. 
 
 Forty feet below, the black water, slipping rapidly 
 astern, was full of phosphorescent light. The lu- 
 minous particles gathered swiftly from ribbons into 
 tangled knots. They spread into whirling patches 
 of incessantly contorted outline. They expanded 
 suddenly to fill the waves with their unearthly sheen.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 163 
 
 Then they parted in fragments, shredded to ribbons 
 again, disappeared like serpents into the depths. 
 This play of light engrossed him, even at such a 
 moment. In it he seemed to find some cryptic mes- 
 sage, the solution of all dilemmas, that dissolved 
 before he could decipher it. 
 
 In a low voice, he said: 
 
 " Come and see if you can read what the water is 
 trying to tell me." 
 
 Wondering at this new tone, after a moment of 
 hesitation she approached the side. Not too near 
 him in the interval between the railing and the ad- 
 jacent life-boat she looked down at the phospho- 
 
 rescence. 
 u 
 
 See how it struggles to make its meaning clear, 
 before it's whipped away. It springs up from noth- 
 ingness. It strives to be united with itself. Then, 
 separated, at the moment of contact, from its desire, 
 it plunges back into the darkness. The black void 
 that produced it quenches it. ... Is that the an- 
 swer?" 
 
 The strangeness of the scene, the solitude, the fer- 
 vor of his voice, made her forget him as she had 
 known him heretofore. Nothing seemed strange to 
 her, any longer, on this strange night. 
 
 Then, all at once, from the mast-head, a ship's bell 
 clanged. Reality, with that sound, pierced illusion 
 through and through. She remembered where she 
 was, and where she was going. She found herself. 
 And, at that instant, an animosity more bitter than 
 ever before sprang up in her, toward this man who 
 
 PROPERTY
 
 1 64 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 had made her feel compassion for perversity, and 
 tenderness for duplicity. She uttered a cold little 
 laugh: 
 
 "When you talk like that, you give me grave 
 doubts that it isn't all melodrama!" 
 
 He did not move. But he knew at once that 
 everything he had said had gone for nothing. 
 
 Abruptly, in the midst of the night, shone forth a 
 tiny mellow flame, motionless, perhaps half a mile 
 away, on the calm sea. 
 
 "A light," she said, in an ordinary tone. He sup- 
 pressed his chagrin, while answering: 
 
 "A fishing-boat. There are islands to the south. 
 Desolate, half-barbarous spots, far off from land, 
 that civilization has no more than touched. But 
 who knows if happiness may not be there for 
 some? . . ." 
 
 He stopped short, dazed by the enormity of a 
 thought. He looked down, blankly, at the whirling 
 phosphorus. And it seemed to him that for a mo- 
 ment all those luminous intricacies stayed motionless, 
 to make him read their message aright. Then they 
 parted. And hi their midst yawned blackness as 
 if something had plunged through them, into the 
 depths. 
 
 In an instant, he had calculated the distance of the 
 fishing-boat, the speed of the ship, the peril of the 
 propellers, his probable endurance. Then he re- 
 coiled, while asking himself, "Am I insane, indeed?" 
 But the fatality of all the day's coincidences sprang 
 forth in his mind like a completed fabric. The se-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 165 
 
 crecy of his presence on the ship! The loneliness of 
 the boat-deck! The late hour, when the lower decks 
 were bound to be deserted! The darkness, that en- 
 shrouded everything! 
 
 And this girl beside him, who, to-morrow, would 
 pass out of his life forever, into another's arms! 
 
 Still, his body grew tense, bracing itself against 
 this impulse, against a host of suggestions, subtle and 
 yet tremendous, which had come to him through 
 those feverish weeks up there in Rome, against 
 something that loomed larger, that became more im- 
 perious, every moment the invisible, vast force of 
 Necessity. 
 
 "Death ! Sure death, in the sea or in the screws ! " 
 
 But a voice within him whispered in reply: 
 
 "All the same, there's a chance. And if we go, we 
 go together." 
 
 "But afterward?" 
 
 "He who overcomes the present conquers the 
 future." 
 
 And it no longer seemed strange to him. It 
 seemed the natural thing to do. 
 
 Nevertheless, to the most reckless and ruthless 
 spirits comes a final hesitation, when all the inhibi- 
 tions of the ages combine in one last effort to restrain 
 the irrevocable deed. 
 
 The little yellow light drew nearer. It hovered 
 opposite his eyes. It began to fall astern. 
 
 He realized that he had buttoned his dinner- 
 jacket automatically, and slipped his feet out of his 
 pumps.
 
 1 66 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 He turned toward her. She was standing in the 
 gap between the end of the railing and the life-boat. 
 Gazing out at that distant spark, she seemed oblivi- 
 ous to the menace of those thoughts. How beautiful 
 she was even when her eyes met his, and read in 
 them, at last, the revelation of his true self! 
 
 With a convulsive movement, she tried to spring 
 aside. But the life-boat penned her in. Behind her 
 lay the naked edge. Her hands flew to her breast. 
 
 "What are you thinking of!" 
 
 "Will you give up that man?" 
 
 "Let me by!" 
 
 "Will you belong to me?" 
 
 "Shall I have to call for help?" 
 
 For a fleeting second he marvelled at her clear 
 voice, her level gaze, her splendid bravery. But her 
 courage made her the more precious. And her defi- 
 ance sent the last of his compunction flying. 
 
 He reached forward. A moment's struggle, tense 
 and silent. He put out his strength, caught her in 
 his arms, and poised on the brink. At once she 
 ceased to move. 
 
 "Death!" she gasped. 
 
 "Death or life who knows!" 
 
 With his burden he leaped forth into space. 
 
 The sea engulfed them. White fire wrapped them 
 round, then was quenched by the black depths. The 
 waters divided in contention for their bodies. Two 
 forces tore at them, one to drag them down forever, 
 the other to snatch them back to air. Then a new 
 power got them in its grasp, the suction of the ship.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 167 
 
 He imagined the thunder of the screws, the remorse- 
 less pull, a vortex of foam and blood. . . . 
 
 At least, they should breathe again before the end! 
 
 Gripping that priceless burden more firmly to his 
 breast, he clove, with great strokes, out and up- 
 ward. The flood parted. The air rushed into his 
 throat. 
 
 About him seethed a gleaming froth. Overhead, a 
 vast bulk blotted out the stars. The stern towered 
 over him. They were in the wake. 
 
 Suddenly, that monstrous silhouette sank out of 
 the heavens. Against the firmament, the super- 
 structure, the funnels, and the masts took new per- 
 spectives, and, while changing, were absorbed into 
 the night. The lights only remained visible. They 
 merged rapidly into a closer constellation, dwindled, 
 and grew dim. The ship was already far away. 
 
 And there remained the open sea. . . . 
 
 He looked down at her face against his shoulder. 
 Her hair streamed back from her pale brow. Her 
 eyes were closed, her lips half parted. Her body was 
 a dead weight. Her arms hung down limply: the 
 water moved them to and fro. . . . 
 
 The commotion of the wake subsided. The sea 
 resumed its calmness. Almost exhausted, he strove 
 to discern the little yellow beacon he had counted on. 
 
 It was invisible. 
 
 Even the Asiatic's mast-head lights had mingled 
 with the stars. The sea was empty, then? This was 
 the end? 
 
 "At any rate, together!" 
 
 On his back, with her weight across his body, he
 
 1 68 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 calculated the time he could keep up. And pres- 
 ently, when he had got back some of his breath, he 
 sent forth, on the still air, the call: 
 
 "Aiuto help!" 
 
 He waited. Then, again : 
 
 "Aiuto! Aiuto!" 
 
 Silence. Even she did not stir. . . . 
 
 But he would keep on moving so till lassitude be- 
 came complete. Then, quite gently, they would sink 
 together. . . . 
 
 " Aiuto! Aiuto! Aiuto!" 
 
 Across the water, clearly, a harsh voice : 
 
 "Ma chi c 'e who's that!" 
 
 And the little yellow light sent out its gleam, a 
 hundred yards away. 
 
 It was the fishing-boat, turning, with a sharp rattle 
 of its tackle, and bearing down on them. He saw 
 the lateen-sail, the foot of a mast against the lantern- 
 light, a human figure scrambling on all fours toward 
 the bow. Over the gunwale a head leaned out. A 
 youth ejaculated: 
 
 "Cap peri! Two in the sea! One a woman!" 
 
 From the shadow of the sail, a barking voice: 
 
 "A siren! Sheer off!" 
 
 "There's a man, too." 
 
 "Then she's caught him!" 
 
 "No. He's holding her up. . . ." 
 
 The boat glided nearer. But the barking voice 
 broke forth again, almost hysterically: 
 
 "Sheer off, I say! Evil will come of this! Steer 
 away, Ilario!" 
 
 Sebastian let his voice ring out:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 169 
 
 "Ilario, when I get into your boat, I'll teach your 
 friend good manners!" 
 
 A third voice, from the stern, phlegmatic, rusty: 
 
 "Ah. It's a Signuri." 
 
 They spoke a dialect that resembled Sicilian, but 
 rougher, and to Sebastian almost unintelligible. 
 
 The sail flapped limp. The boat came alongside of 
 them. The youth in the bow reached down, and 
 grasped Sebastian's hand. 
 
 "Besides," he remarked, "the woman's dead." 
 
 He was small, with a mop of black hair dangling 
 in his gleaming eyes, and bare to the waist. Another 
 joined him reluctantly a wild-looking creature, 
 blackish, long-faced, with the features of an Arab, 
 half naked also, and very thin. Together they tried 
 to drag the two bodies into the boat. 
 
 "Ilario!" 
 
 A figure left the rudder-pole. There advanced 
 into the light an old withered fellow clad in canvas 
 drawers and a dilapidated waistcoat, his face cov- 
 ered with white stubble, silver rings in his ears. At 
 last, Sebastian and his burden were drawn aboard. 
 
 They laid her on the planks that ran along the 
 bottom, over the ribs. Sebastian knelt beside her. 
 What pallor ! What immobility ! Lifting one white, 
 nerveless arm, he groped her pulse. ... It was beat- 
 ing very faintly. 
 
 "Have you wine?" 
 
 "Eh! Is that likely!" 
 
 "As for that," growled the youth, contemptu- 
 ously, "what use is wine to the drowned?"
 
 170 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "She is not drowned. She has fainted." 
 
 Without reply, the three resumed their places. 
 
 When finally her eyes opened, he settled her 
 against the mast, with wadded coats behind her. 
 Among the nets he found a ragged piece of sail-cloth, 
 with which he covered her sodden dress of flowered 
 gauze and satin. She scarcely moved. On her wan 
 face, still clouded by faintness, was growing an ex- 
 pression of vague horror. He turned away. 
 
 It was a very little boat, rough-hewn, without a 
 deck. Fore and aft, penned in by boards, two masses 
 of dying fish gleamed in the starlight, slipping from 
 side to side at the slightest movement of the keel. 
 With its broad lateen-sail the rude craft made good 
 speed, however, in that languorous breeze. 
 
 Where was it bound? 
 
 He did not ask. His rescuers did not question 
 him. 
 
 One, the youngest, lay down again, and pretended 
 to fall asleep. The old man remained at the helm, 
 squatting on his bare heels, scratching his bristles. 
 The blackish fellow, perched on a cross-joist, regarded 
 the luminous ripples that spread out from the bow. 
 In the impassiveness of those three wild-looking 
 creatures there was something of the hostility and 
 reserve of brutes. 
 
 Hours passed. The breeze freshened. On the 
 left, the sky began to pale. Soon it turned green 
 then, rapidly, a raw, malignant red. The rim of the 
 sun pushed up, and everything was golden. 
 
 Far ahead, like a ruddy jewel in a radiant void,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 171 
 
 flashed forth a tiny pointof land. No coast appeared 
 behind it, or, indeed, at any other point. It was a 
 solitary island. 
 
 Sebastian broke the silence. 
 
 "We land there?" 
 
 The blackish fellow turned this question over hi his 
 mind, spat into the water, and finally nodded. 
 
 "What's the name of that place?" 
 
 At length, the answer came, grudgingly: 
 
 "Turrigianti." 
 
 "You mean Torregiante?" 
 
 "I mean Turrigianti." 
 
 The old man at the helm cleared his throat. He 
 volunteered, almost politely: 
 
 " It also has another name. An old name. From 
 the ancients." 
 
 "And what is that?" 
 
 "L'lsliladaVita." 
 
 "The Isle of Life. . . ." 
 
 In the dawn, they drew on steadily toward that 
 destination. .1
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IN the hush of that calm sunrise, the fishing-boat, 
 with Sebastian and Ghirlaine on board, drew near to 
 Torregiante. 
 
 Out of the sea the cliffs rose in towering perpen- 
 dicular. Neither at their base, nor on their summits, 
 was there an evidence of life. Gigantic ramparts set 
 against the north, they showed a blind front, repel- 
 lent, violent. 
 
 But the boat, tacking westward, began to round 
 the island. 
 
 There came in sight some caves. These the sea 
 penetrated with a flash of foam that was extinguished 
 suddenly by the interior gloom. Then the western 
 headland, higher than all the rest of those high battle- 
 ments, shouldered up. On it, amid the tops of trees, 
 appeared at last a yellow wall a solitary habitation. 
 
 Sebastian Maure addressed the ancient at the 
 helm. 
 
 "Who lives there?" 
 
 The same half-hostile reluctance preceded the 
 reply: 
 
 "No one." But the fisherman's rheumy eyes, 
 sending forth a smothered flash, seemed to belie his 
 words. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 173
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 173 
 
 After a while: % 
 
 "Because it is too close to the Old Ones." 
 
 "You mean it's haunted?" 
 
 The old man, by way of answer, slowly raised his 
 chin, with an inscrutable fixed smile that was no 
 smile at all. ... 
 
 This headland passed, the boat turned in toward 
 land. The south side of the island came in view. 
 
 From the naked heights, a natural amphitheatre 
 descended at a gentle slope. Its upper half was 
 strewn with wind- warped trees. Lower down, it was 
 piebald with little cultivated patches. At its foot, 
 a miserable village huddled round the rim of a small, 
 semicircular beach. 
 
 Of this nook the headland just rounded formed the 
 western bulwark, while to the east another promon- 
 tory, low, bare, surmounted by a rough bell-tower, 
 curved out to complete the crescent of the harbor. 
 But it was a harbor in miniature. The nearer they 
 approached it, the more emphatic grew its pettiness 
 and squalor. 
 
 The houses, straggling along the beach, were all 
 alike in meanness and decay. Plaster walls, that 
 had once been white, sky-blue, or pink, were fading 
 to a monochrome of yellowish drab, relieved only by 
 broad blotches. Flat-roofed, all taller than wide, all 
 showing arched tunnel-doorways and loggias, or 
 open galleries, with rounded tops like alcoves, they 
 flaunted from their fronts a wealth of drying rags, as 
 if decked with appropriate trimmings for some slat- 
 tern festival. Before them rose the masts of fishing-
 
 174 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 craft, drawn up, with faded red and azure hulls ex- 
 posed, on the black sand. 
 
 There the inhabitants were gathering in groups. 
 Their sharp eyes had discerned strangers in Ilario's 
 boat. 
 
 Sebastian turned to Ghirlaine. 
 
 She had risen to her feet. Supporting herself 
 against the mast, her face colorless, her golden hair 
 dishevelled, her sodden dress clinging to her limbs, 
 she stared ahead with glassy eyes, in which appeared 
 an immeasurable, a ghastly incredulity. For the 
 first time since that plunge he spoke to her: 
 
 " Now we'll soon have you dry and warm. There's 
 the tower of a church. There'll be a priest, and a 
 parish-house, of sorts. We've not left civilization 
 quite behind." 
 
 In fact, he had made out, among the crowd on 
 shore, the cocked hats of two carabineers those 
 military police who are found in every corner of the 
 realm of Italy. 
 
 Rowing-boats put out to meet them. Over the 
 gunwales rimmed with scarlet paint, savage young 
 faces stared at them in amazement. Questions began 
 to volley round them. But old Ilario, in the stern, 
 merely closed his eyes from time to time and nodded 
 cryptically. The lean, blackish fellow forward, with 
 the features of an Arab, at each new demand for in- 
 formation shrugged slowly, with a movement rather 
 like a shudder, and spat into the water. Only the 
 young one responded. And between the long rig- 
 maroles that clattered from his tongue, his wild eyes,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 175 
 
 under their dangling mop of hair, returned to gaze at 
 Ghirlaine, at her blonde tresses, her bare neck, and 
 the chain of diamonds round her wrist. Sebastian 
 spoke to her again: 
 
 "You'd better put away your bracelet." 
 
 She made no sign, then, of having heard. But 
 finally she shivered, unfastened the chain, and 
 dropped it down the corsage of her dress. 
 
 The boat glided into shallow water. The sail came 
 down. A dozen men, bare-legged to the thighs, laid 
 hands upon the bulwarks. The crowd pressed for- 
 ward. 
 
 Ghirlaine, as she stared round her at all those dark 
 eyes gleaming in sun-blackened faces, those violent- 
 looking bodies clothed in rags, began to tremble. 
 Even the women, in their dingy calicoes and head- 
 kerchiefs, displayed in form and visage a latent feroc- 
 ity, as of aborigines masquerading in the tag-ends of 
 civilized attire. 
 
 Sebastian came to her. She made as if to draw 
 back from him, her lips apart, her breast heaving, 
 more frightened, apparently, by him than by the 
 rest. He said, in a lifeless tone: 
 
 "Afterward, whatever you wish. Just now, 
 though, you'd best let me help you." 
 
 He turned to the crowd. 
 
 "Get a plank." 
 
 At his words and accent, there rose a murmur, a 
 tittering the derision, involuntary in very simple 
 natures, for what is strange. He swept his eyes over 
 aU those grinning countenances, that were grinning
 
 176 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 not with honest mirth but with a sort of stealthy 
 malice. . . . The murmur ceased. 
 
 But the two carabineers advanced. Their cocked 
 hats and blue-black coats cut swallow-tail were im- 
 maculate. Their silvery buttons and their sword- 
 hilts glittered bravely. Their fresh, calm faces, that 
 proclaimed them exiles from the north, were remark- 
 able amid all that unkempt brutality. Two units of 
 civilization, deposited, by the great machine of Or- 
 der, in this isolated spot, they showed in dress and 
 demeanor a strange dignity. Everything about them 
 was reassuring. Yet Sebastian would just as lief not 
 have found them there! 
 
 "A plank for the lady, if you please." 
 
 The carabineer whose stripes proclaimed him a 
 Maresciallo a marshal passed an order to the 
 crowd. A plank appeared as if by magic. Ghir- 
 laine was helped ashore. When the carabineers had 
 ordered the people to stand back, Sebastian inquired : 
 
 "Whereto?" 
 
 The Maresciallo was a strongly built man, almost 
 as tall and broad-shouldered as Sebastian, ruddy, 
 with a wide-spread, fair mustache. He cast a quick 
 glance over Sebastian's wilted evening-dress, and 
 Ghirlaine's gauze and satin. Then, noting her hag- 
 gard eyes and drooping figure, he replied, emphati- 
 cally, in pure Italian: 
 
 "The police-office is certainly no place for this 
 lady." 
 
 "There's a priest in the village?" 
 
 "Sicuro! Let us go there."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 177 
 
 And they set out eastward, along the narrow, net- 
 encumbered beach, toward the promontory where 
 rose the rough bell-tower. 
 
 The crowd tramped after them. Children, their 
 knees and elbows sticking through their clothes, kept 
 running ahead, to look back at this unprecedented 
 spectacle. New faces popped out from windows and 
 above the loggia walls. The cavernous staircases 
 rumbled. Out of the tunnel-doorways emerged new 
 figures, to join the following. All the village was at 
 their heels, when the carabineers and the strangers 
 reached the parish-house. 
 
 It was a little crumbling dwelling with soft-stone 
 walls, that leaned against the church, on the spine of 
 the eastern promontory, just beyond the village. The 
 open door was surmounted by a wooden Crucifix and 
 the Monogram of Christ. On the threshold stood a 
 wisp of a man, old, yellow, vastly wrinkled, hook- 
 nosed, with a long slit of a mouth perpetually smil- 
 ing, and bright, shallow eyes. He wore a threadbare 
 cassock. He was the parocco the village priest. 
 
 And Sebastian, instantly appraising the simple 
 honesty of his features, had his second disappoint- 
 ment. For he would have preferred another, pos- 
 sibly less unusual-looking, type of parocco. . . . 
 
 The old man seemed to understand the situation at 
 first glance. He took Ghirlaine by the hand, patted 
 her wrist, and peered, with a kindness none the less 
 intense because a trifle wavering, into her sick eyes. 
 At that look, her lips quivered; she swayed slightly 
 forward; her hands clung to his; all her being sent
 
 178 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 forth, as it were, to the good she felt in him, a mute, 
 poignant cry for help. . . . He seemed startled by 
 that look, and quickly led her into the house. 
 
 Sebastian and the Maresciallo followed. The 
 second carabineer remained outside. There he ex- 
 plained to the assembled village the discourtesy of 
 unbridled curiosity. 
 
 The room in which the others found themselves was 
 barely furnished. On the stone floor, three rickety 
 chairs stood round a table, which held an ink-well, a 
 dish of purple sand, some religious pamphlets, and a 
 soiled coffee-cup. All the windows were tight-closed. 
 From the discolored walls a cold hopelessness seemed 
 to fall into this atmosphere of stagnation. For some 
 reason, to Ghirlaine, the place, instead of a sanctu- 
 ary, was like a prison. . . . 
 
 Abruptly, her surroundings all receded. She had 
 a feeling, unique and terrible, as if her heart had 
 stopped. She moved toward a chair it disappeared 
 before her eyes. . . . She fainted. 
 
 It was Sebastian who sprang forward just in 
 time. 
 
 "Is there a woman in this house?" 
 
 "Maria!" 
 
 "Eccumi here I am!" answered a deep voice 
 from the corridor. 
 
 And an old slattern wellnigh as broad as tall, im- 
 mensely fat, her dingy triple chin adorned by sprout- 
 ing moles, rolled into the room with an astonishing 
 agility. She had evidently been waiting at the key- 
 hole.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 179 
 
 "Give her to me," demanded this apparition, ex- 
 tending two arms as formidable as a gorilla's. 
 
 "Can you carry her?" 
 
 She laughed, showing a mouth bereft of teeth, 
 large, red, almost lewd in its unnatural nakedness. 
 Without replying further, she took his burden, 
 whirled round, and waddled out as swiftly as she 
 had entered. To him, the sight of that long, beauti- 
 ful body caught up and borne away by the squat, 
 trull-like housekeeper was shocking an augury, 
 perhaps, which made him lower his head in sullen 
 shame. . . . But from the depths of the corridor the 
 woman bellowed back: 
 
 "Stay where you are, you others! She's going to 
 bed!" * 
 
 A door slammed. 
 
 "Capable?" remarked the Maresciallo, approv- 
 ingly, as a man of action. 
 
 The priest, with a wry smile, assented : 
 
 "Capability a gift of tyrants! . . . But let's sit 
 down. One of us is weary, and possibly hungry 
 also?" 
 
 "Rather," Sebastian assented, reflecting that he 
 had eaten nothing since the previous morning. Five 
 minutes later, he was swallowing bread and coffee. 
 
 That meal concluded, the old priest produced from 
 inside his cassock two of those powerful cigars called 
 "Toscanas," long, black, and shaped like shrivelled 
 vanilla-beans. These he cut into halves. Three parts 
 he distributed, and pocketed the fourth. One match, 
 with care, served all. A cloud of villainous smoke 
 ascended. The carabineer took out his note-book.
 
 i8o THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "At your leisure, Signore," he said, politely. 
 
 With a jerk Sebastian's thoughts returned from 
 Ghirlaine to this more pressing dilemma. He leaned 
 back, closed his eyes, exhaled a few smoke-rings, re- 
 flected rapidly. The others gazed with a respect that 
 approached admiration at this big stranger, so much 
 at ease in his ruined finery which surely only princes 
 wore, so obviously the master of himself, for all the 
 strangeness of his situation. 
 
 He began slowly, with the manner of a man who 
 wants, at all costs, to be precise, to omit nothing im- 
 portant, to make everything as clear as day: 
 
 "I am a Russian. My name is Saranin Scha- 
 poschnikoff . " 
 
 The carabineer, licking his pencil, made a hopeless 
 try at those exotic syllables. 
 
 "What titles, Excellency?" 
 
 "I have none." 
 
 "Profession?" This in a deprecatory voice. 
 
 "I manage my estates." 
 
 "Of course! . . . Domicile?" 
 
 "Why, difficult to say. My properties are scat- 
 tered. However, put down Malo Attymskoi. I was 
 born there." 
 
 The carabineer, with the national carelessness for 
 foreign names, dashed off his conception of what 
 these words should look like. 
 
 "And the lady, of course?" 
 
 "Of course. The lady is my wife." 
 
 The soldier, his honest face instantly flushing, was 
 so confused that he neglected to ask her given name. 
 Sebastian continued:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 181 
 
 "For more than a year, Signori, my wife has been 
 melancholy. The doctors ordered change, travel, 
 unusual scenes. For several months we followed this 
 prescription. She seemed greatly improved. One 
 might say almost well again. Then we came to 
 Tunis." 
 
 His face clouded. They could see, from his ex- 
 pression, that he should not have taken her to Tunis. 
 
 "From Tunis we planned to go on to Palermo. I 
 chose a way that I thought would amuse her and dis- 
 tract her. I chartered a sailing-boat, nothing won- 
 derful, but good enough for so short a voyage. It be- 
 longed to a fellow-countryman of mine, who had 
 gone inland to explore the desert. It carried a crew 
 of ten. There was even a neat little dining-saloon. 
 Indeed, we were tempted to pretend it was a yacht. 
 We amused ourselves, those two nights, by dressing 
 for dinner." 
 
 The Maresciallo nodded solemnly to the priest. 
 His premonition had been right: this stranger was, 
 without a doubt, one of the pezzi grossly one of the "big 
 pieces," in the world. He listened with augmented 
 sympathy, as Sebastian went on: 
 
 "We had favoring winds. We found ourselves 
 delighted with that venture. Last night, when we 
 went below, the future seemed bright again. For 
 my wife's late melancholy had drawn her away from 
 me, so that at times she couldn't even bear my com- 
 pany. But this recovery was bringing everything 
 back to its old basis. We even spoke of an early 
 return to our own land.
 
 1 82 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "We had not left the dining-saloon, when suddenly 
 we were thrown against the wall, the vessel rolled 
 over, the seams parted, the sea gushed in. A great 
 ship had run us down. 
 
 "How did this happen? Our lights must have 
 been burning. There was no fog. The stars were 
 out. Besides, a man was at the wheel and another 
 was at the bow. Or at least when we went below. 
 ... It will never be explained. I presume the rest 
 are drowned. 
 
 "I dragged my wife on deck just as the sea closed 
 over us. When we came up, the steam-ship was al- 
 ready far away. But it isn't easy to resign oneself 
 to death! I went on struggling and shouting. . . . 
 At last, the fishing-boat answered." 
 
 The carabineer, his pencil poised above his note- 
 book, remained in the same attitude, agape. But 
 presently the old priest rose, approached, and laid 
 on Sebastian's broad shoulder a tremulous hand. In 
 quivering accents: 
 
 "My son, the work of God is plain in that miracu- 
 lous rescue!" 
 
 Sebastian shook his head. 
 
 " You think so? The shock to my wife has undone 
 everything we'd gained. She's where she was a year 
 ago. Perhaps even worse off. All to do over again ! 
 It is too much!" 
 
 "Have faith, my son," the old priest replied, still 
 patting the other's shoulder. "You will see in time. 
 In the end, everything is for the good. ..." 
 
 He returned to his place, sat down, and blew a
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 183 
 
 trumpet-blast in his bandanna handkerchief. Silence 
 ensued. 
 
 Sebastian gloomily drew out his pocket-book, ex- 
 plored its contents, and with care extracted some 
 pulpy bank-notes. Spreading on the table a hun- 
 dred-lire bill, he said: 
 
 " Masses, for the souls of those who were drowned." 
 
 The old priest fixed his eyes upon this wealth. He 
 stammered : 
 
 "Too much, Signore!" 
 
 "I should not be satisfied to offer less." 
 
 He took out six bank-notes of ten lire each, and 
 addressed the Maresciallo. 
 
 "For the three who brought us ashore. Please see 
 that they receive it each into his own hands." 
 
 The carabineer put the money into his note-book. 
 
 "Excellency," he said, respectfully, "I thank you 
 for them in advance." 
 
 The stranger had gauged very accurately the lo- 
 cal standard of extreme munificence. Moreover, he 
 knew better than to offer money to a carabineer, 
 whether for services rendered or in expectation of 
 good-will. He put up his pocket-book, considered, 
 then inquired: 
 
 "What communication with the mainland?" 
 
 "A small steam-ship, every two weeks, from Tra- 
 pani, in Sicily. By good luck, it's due this after- 
 noon!" 
 
 "Ah. ... I shall want to send off some letters." 
 
 "But you yourself, Signore?" 
 
 Sebastian raised his shoulders slowly.
 
 1 84 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "What can I do? If I took her on the water 
 again immediately, who knows how it might affect 
 her? No; we must wait here at least till the next 
 boat. But where are we to stay?" 
 
 Said the priest : 
 
 "My house, such as it is " 
 
 "I am not willing to impose on you so far. . . . 
 What place is that on the headland, that we passed 
 as we came in?" 
 
 The carabineer and the priest exchanged a glance, 
 then smiled at each other rather foolishly. The 
 Maresciallo replied: 
 
 "Eh! I suppose you'd call it a villa." 
 
 "Empty?" 
 
 "So to speak. . . ." 
 
 "Furnished?" 
 
 "Well, after a fashion. . . . The man who built it 
 gave up the idea of living in it, before he'd quite 
 moved in." 
 
 "And who was he?" 
 
 " A foreigner like your Excellency. But half -dead. 
 Always coughing and painting pictures. Mad, they 
 called him here. Until he went away." 
 
 "Why did he go away?" 
 
 The carabineer spread out his hands, shrugged 
 largely, and again looked rather foolish. 
 
 "These donkeys these natives! They get a 
 thing in their heads. They talk and talk. Some- 
 times, if they talk enough, they make other people 
 donkeys like themselves. Eh! A funny thing, 
 gossip!"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 185 
 
 "It doesn't affect Annibale," the priest suggested. 
 
 "OrFannia!" 
 
 "Ah!" The old man made a gesture of distress. 
 Sebastian said: 
 
 "The old fisherman, Ilario, told me that no one 
 lives there." 
 
 "Oh, Ilario! Because Annibale is his enemy, and 
 because he declares that Fannia, who is his daughter, 
 no longer exists." The priest sighed. 
 
 "So the villa's occupied after all?" 
 
 "Occupied? Yes and no. They live there, Fan- 
 nia and Annibale, because nobody prevents them. 
 It's hard to come by, and Annibale has a rifle. And 
 at night, when a man might creep up close, there's 
 no one who'd venture there, for other reasons. . . . 
 Of course, Signor Maresciallo, you excluded." 
 
 The carabineer inclined his head with dignity, then 
 answered: 
 
 "Annibale has only to commit some little crime 
 for me to visit him. As for his present state, if the 
 Law considered it a crime for a man and a girl to 
 lead their life, we others should be arresting couples 
 every hour in the twenty-four. Their little affair is a 
 family matter still." 
 
 "Well," demanded Sebastian, suddenly, "is this 
 villa for rent? " 
 
 "For rent! That's a new thought. After all, it 
 must be. The Syndic has the keys. Though the 
 doors would naturally be open, Annibale and Fannia 
 living there. ..." 
 
 "I think," said Sebastian, "that I shall take it for 
 a week or two."
 
 1 86 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 The old priest looked disturbed. To the Mare- 
 sciallo he muttered: 
 
 "All that stirred up again?" 
 
 "But maybe ended, this time, for good," was the 
 reply. 
 
 "Another thing. . . . Annibale might be ugly." 
 
 "If Annibale's ugly," remarked Sebastian, "I shall 
 be a little ugly too." 
 
 "Excellency," said the soldier, promptly, "if you 
 rent the villa, the carabineers will go with you when 
 you take possession. There may be some trifling ac- 
 tion as a result unhappily ! " Despite his last word, 
 he looked wonderfully refreshed, like a man who 
 sniffs excitement after infinite boredom. With per- 
 haps an involuntary warmth, he added: 
 
 "Indeed, it's a pretty spot up there. It would 
 enchant the lady." 
 
 "No doubt of that," returned Sebastian. Then, 
 rising, he concluded, in decisive tones: 
 
 "I shall move in to-day. Kindly inform the Syn- 
 dic. Good-morning, Signor Maresciallo, and a thou- 
 sand thanks. If you see the storekeeper, send him 
 round with some samples of his boots and clothing. 
 Now, Padre, if I may write my letters. . . ." 
 
 The first letter was to His Excellency, Boris Bash- 
 kirtseff, General Post, Tunis. It contained half a 
 dozen blank pages. The second was to Disnisius 
 Pappachzislos, General Post, Palermo, and ran as 
 follows: 
 
 Tell the hotel that I have gone to Messina. Take the baggage 
 there. Pretend to be awaiting me from Naples. But the night
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 187 
 
 of your arrival, you must receive a telegram saying I have been 
 called to London. Leave Messina at once, ostensibly for Eng- 
 land. Go to Tunis. At the Poste Restante, you will find a 
 dummy letter addressed to Boris BashkirtsejJ. Identify your- 
 self as this individual, and take it up. 
 
 From Tunis send me some clothing suitable for rural wear, and 
 a similar outfit for a lady, tall, and rather slender. Stout shoes, 
 for a narrow foot. Best to send several sizes. Pack with these 
 things the Mauser automatic, the rifle-stock, and about twenty 
 clips of cartridges. 
 
 If there is a Russian Consular Agent at Tunis now, get some 
 of his stationery. On it write, over the signature, Boris Bash- 
 kirtseff, that Monsieur TestyojJ is still in the interior, but will be 
 notified. Mention a shipment of money. Close with regrets. 
 Arrange this letter so that it can easily be opened by the police. 
 It had better be in French, for their convenience. 
 
 In another envelope, well sealed, and registered, forward two 
 thousand lire, small bills. I think you have saved enough, out 
 of what you have taken from my pockets, to pay for this remit- 
 tance and your travelling expenses. Later on I will reimburse 
 you. 
 
 If you have anything to say, write it in English, and enclose 
 with the bank-notes. 
 
 Then disappear. It would be a good opportunity, and a 
 pleasant recreation for you, to return to Balikisri, and settle with 
 your old enemy. When I want you again, you will find a note 
 at the Cafe Osmanlie, Rue de Sirkedji, Constantinople. 
 
 Don't attempt to meddle with my scarf-pins. I am still an 
 excellent judge of counterfeit pearls and jewels. 
 
 All communications to Saranin Schapposchnikojf, Torregi- 
 ante, by way of Trapani, Sicily. 
 
 He sealed both envelopes with wax, and sent them 
 to be registered. 
 
 The storekeeper arrived with a bundle of his wares. 
 Sebastian changed into a fishing-jersey, a rough suit
 
 1 88 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 of frieze, wooden-soled boots, and a felt hat. Thus 
 attired, he went out. 
 
 The crowd had departed. But, at his call, a thin 
 little boy, nut-brown and covered with dust, ad- 
 vanced round the corner of the church. Sebastian 
 pointed high over the village, toward the yellow 
 walls that crowned the western headland. 
 
 "Picciutteddu little fellow, you're going to show 
 me the path to that villa." 
 
 The child's eyes dilated. He recoiled, and crossed 
 himself. 
 
 "Ma 'cche never!" 
 
 "I'm not asking you to go there, Picciriddu, but 
 to point out the way." 
 
 The boy stared at the money in Sebastian's hand 
 with a hungry, desperate look. At last, he turned 
 quickly, made a furtive sign with two fingers, and set 
 off down the slope toward the beach. 
 
 Fishermen dropped their nets, or clambered out of 
 their beached boats, to stare at him. The loggia 
 walls were suddenly lined with women, smeary-faced 
 babies in their arms. None spoke. But Sebastian's 
 guide cried out, in his shrill treble, struggling 
 between bravado and anxiety: 
 
 "He's going to the Place-Up-There ! " 
 
 Immediately there ran from lip to lip a murmur 
 of amazement: 
 
 "The Place-Up-There! . . . Another mad one! 
 . . . Eh, let him go! Annibale will discourage him! 
 ... All the same, a human being, like our- 
 selves. ."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 189 
 
 And a few cries pursued him, uttered by strong 
 young voices : 
 
 " Signuri, take good advice! Leave the Place-Up- 
 There alone!" 
 
 The Marshal of carabineers came out of a shabby 
 doorway surmounted by the Cross of Savoy. Be- 
 hind him three privates showed themselves, bare- 
 headed, in white-canvas barrack-jackets. 
 
 "Excellency, the men are hardly ready." 
 
 "I'm going up alone." 
 
 " Alone ! Annibale would put a bullet in your head 
 before you even saw him!" 
 
 "I think not." 
 
 "Signore, I cannot permit it." 
 
 Sebastian looked at the soldier pleasantly. 
 
 "My friend, there are two ways of dealing with a 
 rifle to flatter it by attention, and to ignore it. To 
 ignore it frequently saves powder, blood, and uni- 
 forms. Go back to your cards, and save your cara- 
 bineers to deal to you again to-morrow. Excitement 
 is no relief to dead men." 
 
 For a moment the Maresciallo stared, then 
 stepped back and saluted. A new respect was in his 
 face. 
 
 "Excellency, it is most irregular, and against a 
 good half of my instincts. . . . But if I agree, it's 
 because something tells me that you are Annibale's 
 master." 
 
 "Diamine! If I am not! Since naturally he 
 came into my service when I decided to rent the 
 villa."
 
 190 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Followed by some young men, he went on along 
 the beach, behind the little boy. They took to the 
 hillside. Higher up, they entered the groves that 
 clothed the slope from that altitude to the summit. 
 Ten minutes' climbing brought them to a narrow 
 path, hemmed in with trees all slanted in one direc- 
 tion by past gales. Here Sebastian's following stood 
 still. His small guide would go no farther. He went 
 on alone. 
 
 Among the tree-trunks, gray rocks were piled up 
 here and there, as if shaken down by some vast land- 
 slip. On either hand, aloes, prickly-pears, and com- 
 mon cactus raised thick hedges. It was an ideal 
 situation for an ambush. 
 
 Sebastian paused in a clearing to gaze back. Be- 
 yond the tree-tops, between two stone-pines that 
 rose above the rest, he saw the village roofs spread 
 out far below, the rim of the beach, the tiny fishing- 
 boats. Through that high-set foliage the salt breeze 
 sighed heavily. And, as it lulled, he heard, close 
 by, the click of a gun-lock. 
 
 He turned to look up the path. 
 
 "Is that you, Annibale?" 
 
 Silence. . . . 
 
 "Annibale, a well-bred servant never shoots his 
 master till hot weather. And, as I've just taken the 
 villa, I am your landlord. Your service began, in 
 fact, two hours ago. But I'm not paying you wages 
 to waste your time in this particular way. Come 
 out, and take your orders!" 
 
 Nothing moved, except the branches in the wind.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 191 
 
 Sebastian raised his voice: 
 
 "Another thing, Annibale. You'll find me rather 
 short of patience. I'm liable to come after you. 
 You may get a cuff or two. Of course, a blow would 
 have to be washed out in blood. But I have an idea 
 that it won't be mine. In that case, Fannia may 
 object to staying in my employ. A pity, because 
 my Signura is with me. . . . 
 
 "You rascal, if you were born dumb, shoot off 
 your gun, and let me know where to find you!" 
 
 Suddenly, from behind a cactus-hedge a dozen 
 yards up the slope, there rose a tall, herculean young 
 man, bronzed, ragged, of a ferocious sort of beauty. 
 He held a rifle. His deep chest heaved beneath his 
 tatters. His face was working. 
 
 At once, Sebastian advanced on him. 
 
 The outlaw jerked up his rifle. But the other, 
 with a shrug, kept on, while warning him: 
 
 "Those old-fashioned gas-pipes are liable to blow 
 up in a man's face. If you caught me after an 
 exceptionally good dinner, Annibale, I could buy 
 you a new rifle, but hardly a new pair of jaws. 
 By the way, I hope your Fannia knows how to 
 cook." 
 
 He took the weapon from the fellow's fingers, ex- 
 amined it, and returned it in disgust. 
 
 "In a few days I'll show you a real one. Mean- 
 while, I want to find myself in a decent house. Clean 
 floors, clean beds, clean water. Tell Fannia that the 
 Signura and I will be up by sundown. If you have a 
 whole pair of trousers, put them on. If not, I'll
 
 192 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 bring them from the village. What else? Candles? 
 Blankets? Salt? Bread? Wine? I see by your 
 ribs that you've been living close. ..." 
 
 The outlaw continued to gape at him. 
 
 "Are you really deaf and dumb, after all?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "A little more politeness, Annibale." 
 
 "No Signuri." 
 
 "Then for God's love, begin to show some energy 
 in my affairs!" 
 
 He looked the man in the eyes, smiled, and clapped 
 him on the shoulder. The fellow's face changed; his 
 eyes fell it was a victory. Without further ado, 
 wheeling round, Sebastian descended toward the 
 village. 
 
 The Marshal of carabineers was just setting out in 
 search of him, with the whole force three men. 
 Evidently, he had repented of his yielding, and 
 begun to fear the worst. At sight of Sebastian, his 
 features expressed considerable relief. 
 
 "Ah, Excellency, but you were wise enough to 
 change your mind!" 
 
 " I have seen him. We go up this evening." 
 
 "Cospettol" 
 
 But the soldier quickly turned grave. 
 
 "I have to tell your Excellency that the Signora 
 is far from well. ..." 
 
 It was true. Ghirlaine had passed from uncon- 
 sciousness into a semi-stupor. When he entered the 
 room where she was lying, she did not recognize him. 
 Thus she remained, even while they carried her, at
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 193 
 
 twilight, in a hammock made of nets and oars, up 
 through the woods, to the commencement of the 
 path. There, at Sebastian's request, the carabineers 
 fell back. And presently, at his call, Annibale vent- 
 ured down, to share that burden with him, to the 
 villa. 

 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 FOR a long while, Ghirlaine was conscious only of 
 a pattering of bare feet on stone floors, energetic 
 whispers, rough hands that touched her gently, the 
 coolness of water on her forehead. . . . 
 
 Sunlight, shining through shutters, made patterns 
 on a plaster wall. Then a candle nickered beneath 
 a gaudy print of the Madonna. 
 
 She discerned, at last, a young woman seated knit- 
 ting, copper-colored from the sun, black-browed, 
 strong-looking, handsome in a wild, dishevelled way. 
 She wore the remnant of a faded pink print dress. 
 Her muscular brown feet were bare. She was almost 
 at the threshold of maternity. 
 
 Ghirlaine moved on the narrow iron bedstead. 
 The young woman, rising at once, approached. 
 With grave sympathy, in a deep, husky voice, she 
 asked: 
 
 "E megghiu, Signura?" 
 
 And presently, as the other showed no signs of 
 comprehension, she turned from Sicilian to Italian: 
 
 "Sta meglio are you better?" 
 
 Mechanically, Ghirlaine answered: 
 
 "I don't speak Italian. . . ." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 The stranger made a gesture of resignation, re- 
 
 194
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 195 
 
 arranged the coverlid, returned to her knitting. And 
 silence again pervaded that dim chamber. 
 
 In the night, Ghirlaine woke to realize fully her 
 position. The faces of her aunt, of Vincent Pam- 
 fort, of Sangallo, and many others, rose before her. 
 Through the darkness, they appeared to gaze at her 
 as if from far off, from beyond an immeasurable 
 abyss, from a world that she had left, and would 
 never see again. Then incredulity struggled against 
 the horror of this thought. But she heard the faint 
 murmur of waves below the cliffs. And that sound 
 recalled to her, all vivid, the engulfing sea, the fish- 
 ing-boat, the isle, the truth! 
 
 She began to fill the room with sobs. A light 
 sprang forth. The peasant, half awake, glided to 
 the bedside. 
 
 "Tranquillu. . . . Tranquillu. ..." 
 
 Ghirlaine clung to this ragged girl, hi whom she 
 seemed to recognize a source of strength, a humble 
 ally, perhaps a refuge. Finally, still holding that 
 calloused hand hi hers, she wept herself to sleep 
 again. . . . 
 
 Once more the sun shone on the walls. The room 
 was empty. Out of doors, two men were talking in 
 low tones. Motionless, with cold shudders running 
 over her, she listened to Sebastian's voice. 
 
 He was talking calmly in a strange tongue that 
 hardly sounded like Italian. A voice answered him 
 respectfully. Presently his heavy footfalls died 
 away. 
 
 A woman's whisper followed, and a rustle of bare
 
 196 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 feet. The brown girl entered. Over her shoulder, a 
 massive young man peered in. When he saw Ghir- 
 laine looking at him, he vanished. 
 
 At once, she found her present position intolerable. 
 Despite her weakness, she might not feel so thor- 
 oughly defenceless if she were on her feet? Abruptly, 
 her head swimming, she sat up. Then she remem- 
 bered the ruined low-neck evening dress. 
 
 The peasant, however, with a glistening smile pro- 
 duced a homely frock of dark-blue wool, some coarse 
 muslin garments, and flimsy kid shoes with long 
 patent-leather toes. But when she had laid this cos- 
 tume on the bed she added to it, with a flourish, a 
 shawl of crocus-yellow silk, fringed, and embroidered 
 garishly with blue roses a shawl such as peasant 
 girls wear on their wedding-day. 
 
 It was he who had bought these things: yet she 
 had to put them on ! 
 
 As she donned this clothing of the poor, such as she 
 had never even touched before, a sense of unreality 
 returned to her, a doubt of her identity. Surely it 
 was a dream? But the soft monotone of the sea 
 persisted. . . . 
 
 There was a mirror on the wall. She looked at her 
 reflection. 
 
 With hollow eyes, and blond hair all disordered 
 round her pallor, she showed a new, tragic sort of 
 beauty. In that face there was something strange 
 as if she were gazing at the features of a sister who 
 had passed through untold travail. Tears blurred 
 her eyes. But she repulsed this weakness.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 197 
 
 "I must be strong. . .V 
 
 Still, she sat down limply on the bed, and let her 
 head sink back. The crude print of the Madonna 
 was before her. She closed her eyes and prayed. 
 
 The barefoot girl brought food: spitted larks and 
 macaroni, salty olives, goat's-milk cheese, red wine, 
 blood oranges. Worn out by insistence, Ghirlaine 
 made a pretence of eating. The other, her talk eked 
 out with pantomime, ended by establishing a kind of 
 intercourse. 
 
 Her name was Fannia. . . . There was some one 
 called Annibale. ... He had gone somewhere, be- 
 cause it was late afternoon. . . . 
 
 In fact, the sunshine on the plaster walls was turn- 
 ing red. Ghirlaine went to the window. Fannia 
 swung the shutters open. And nothing could have 
 been more exquisite than sea and sky and island, at 
 this golden hour. 
 
 From that summit, which seemed to surmount the 
 world, the enveloping sea appeared tilted up on end, 
 till it rilled half the flushing sky with mingled gold 
 and amethyst. Eastward, the range of peaks fell 
 away in giant steps, their salient surfaces all ruddy, 
 their hollows thick with shadows of a smoky black. 
 And the declining sunlight struck against the amphi- 
 theatre of their southern slope, which descended 
 from bright foliage to rosy garden-patches, and from 
 these to the little blushing village thrown like half a 
 garland round the beach. On the farthest promon- 
 tory, low, incurving, the church-tower blazed like a 
 tiny shaft of fire.
 
 1 98 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 She was dumfounded to find herself in this high, 
 isolated place, so far from that spire, beneath which 
 she had lost touch with reality which had been, in 
 the midst of her despair, an emblem of vague hope. 
 But hope might not reach across that still, pellucid 
 void! . . . 
 
 How could the world be so beautiful, at such a 
 moment ! 
 
 The brown sail of a felucca was wending home 
 across the languid sea. It left behind it a wavering, 
 wine-colored wake. On the strip of beach, black 
 dots were moving among long lines of drying nets, 
 chocolate-colored and rose-madder. After a while, a 
 faint tinkle stole through the silence. The bell in the 
 church-tower was ringing Vespers? 
 
 So life went on down there, oblivious to her 
 tragedy! 
 
 She turned to find Fannia looking at her with eager 
 eyes. 
 
 "Bella?" the girl demanded, in her deep, im- 
 pulsive voice. 
 
 "Si, betta. . . ." But the words caught in Ghir- 
 laine's throat. 
 
 She made an inclusive gesture, and asked her ques- 
 tion mutely. The peasant responded, with an ac- 
 cent of that pride which comes to her kind at con- 
 templation of their own little corner of the world, 
 however humble: 
 
 "Turrigianti!" 
 
 " Turrigianti. . . . Turrigianti. . . ." 
 
 And the success of that exchange of thought im-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 199 
 
 pelled her to a more vital effort. If only she could 
 make this honest, sympathetic creature understand 
 the truth! 
 
 Desperately she took Fannia by the shoulders, 
 nodded into the house, shook her head with a shudder 
 of horror, pointed across the sea. She was afraid, 
 and it was Fannia who must help her. The girl re- 
 garded her gravely. 
 
 "Si si, Signura. Pacenza patience." 
 
 But Ghirlaine tried again. She made motions that 
 described Sebastian. She expressed her fear of him. 
 She showed her hand, bare of a wedding-ring. She 
 implored the girl anew. 
 
 And Fannia, nodding with a look of pity, repeated, 
 soothingly: 
 
 "Si, si. Pacenza, Signura. Pacenza" 
 
 For a moment, Ghirlaine remained tense, quiver- 
 ing from her impotency. Then she left the window, 
 and went blindly from the room. 
 
 She passed through bare chambers, close-shuttered, 
 with white walls and red-tiled floors. The windows 
 were not glazed. The doors had no locks. The 
 house was hardly finished. One room contained 
 two pallets spread with goat-skins. On a home- 
 made bracket tottered a dilapidated image of the 
 Virgin. Underneath was pinned a colored post- 
 card. A scrap of paper! 
 
 Fannia, who had followed, explained that this was 
 her room and Annibale's. Ghirlaine pointed to the 
 card, and touched her breast. The peasant nodded 
 readily, with a flash of teeth. Ghirlaine whipped the
 
 200 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 card from the wall, hid it in her dress, and made a 
 sign of secrecy. 
 
 An open door let in the sunset. She found herself 
 beneath a portico. Before her lay a terrace. From 
 its edges, the sheer cliffs plunged down, perhaps three 
 hundred feet, into the waves. The terrace was 
 covered with intertangled weeds and flowers rose- 
 geraniums, pink campion, asphodels, heliotropes, 
 nasturtiums, marigolds. Over patches of sweet mar- 
 joram, bees were droning. 
 
 Then the hush was broken by another sound, an 
 old man's voice : 
 
 "Mille grazie a thousand thanks. A rivederla, 
 Signer e. ..." 
 
 She glimpsed, beyond the eastern corner of the 
 house, descending through the trees, a pair of narrow, 
 stooped shoulders clad in greenish-black. It was the 
 priest. 
 
 Her heart leaped into her throat. All at once, she 
 found her strength again. Springing from the por- 
 tico, she sped after him. 
 
 But at the corner of the house Sebastian stepped 
 out before her. 
 
 In his blue jersey and coarse suit of frieze, his thick 
 neck bare, his black hair disordered by the wind, he 
 was a more formidable-looking figure than ever. 
 Even with her shock of fright, the thought came to 
 Ghirlaine that at last his physical self was matched 
 by his surroundings. Something as violently bizarre 
 as this wild landscape, as hard and relentless as these 
 crags, was here, at last, revealed in him to the ut-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 201 
 
 most. He looked like one who had finally come into 
 his own. 
 
 His face, too, was pale, and rather more harshly 
 lined than usual. It would seem that this triumph 
 of his had borne in on him, also, a realization of its 
 tragedy. He had the air of a man who, in winning, 
 has lost everything, yet, knowing that he has lost, 
 determines to ignore stoically the bitterness of that 
 defeat, the ghastliness of the present situation, the 
 entire fact that something unspeakable has hap- 
 pened. . . . 
 
 His deep-set eyes regarded her with the old blank- 
 ness. His voice was as nearly colorless as in those 
 first days of duplicity and atrocious inspiration: 
 
 "Don't call him back. Poor old chap, the climb 
 up nearly did for him; and now, as it is, he's late for 
 Vespers. But he wanted to bring you these " 
 
 He dropped into her hand the diamond chain. 
 
 "His servant had forgotten all about them. She 
 took them for beads, and put them away in a tea-cup. 
 It seems diamonds aren't appreciated hereabouts." 
 
 She sent another glance down the narrow path, 
 that lost itself, fifty feet below, amid the tree- 
 trunks. The priest's cassock had already disap- 
 peared. But for an instant, behind a screen of cac- 
 tus, something moved stealthily. . . . 
 
 Sebastian gazed at her. His mouth twitched; his 
 dark face was slowly rilled with blood. At last, in 
 low tones, abruptly: 
 
 "How are you feeling?" 
 
 Her lips trembled. Her eyelids drooped. Her
 
 202 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 shape relaxed in a long quiver. She leaned against 
 the house wall. 
 
 He called, and Fannia appeared. He gave her an 
 order hi Sicilian. She set out two cane chairs in the 
 portico. Ghirlaine sank into one of them. Pres- 
 ently, he took the other. 
 
 The portico faced south-west. On the high ho- 
 rizon shone the last splendor of the sunset. The sea 
 was a great field of the palest blue, overlaid with a 
 myriad amethyst and orange flecks. The sky, where 
 the sun had just sunk into the waves, showed an 
 intense rose-pink that merged, with the most deli- 
 cate gradation, into a pale-green zenith. A hand's- 
 breadth above the sky-line, extended one thin, 
 straight streak of mauve. 
 
 The murmur of the waves had ceased. The foliage 
 stood motionless. The bees had left the flowers. 
 All the world was waiting, breathless, for the night. 
 And the sweetness of many blossoms enveloped 
 them, like a subtle presage a sickening mockery. 
 
 She remained motionless, scarcely breathing. 
 What could she hope for, from the man who had 
 made this scene reality? What words could she find 
 to move him with, when her wits were crushed, 
 when her very personality seemed annihilated? And 
 what cuhnination was he planning to reveal to her, 
 as he looked out across the sea, with sombre eyes ? 
 
 When he spoke, she had once more a feeling of illu- 
 sion. For he merely said: 
 
 "You must forgive these clothes. I'll do better 
 for you soon. And these accommodations. . . .
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 203 
 
 " I hope you could eat the food. I broiled the larks 
 myself. If I had a chafing-dish, or a couple of decent 
 sauce-pans, I'd put together some plats that might 
 even have interested Monsieur Hamel, in the palmy 
 days of the Grand Vefour. As for Fannia, I fear 
 she'd never be enough of a cordon bleu to charm 
 either of us. ... 
 
 "And by the way, stick to wine and coffee. 
 There's a spring down the hill, but brackish. Only 
 fit for bathing. You'll find a new wooden tub, of 
 sorts, in the alcove by your room. Annibale has 
 orders to fill it every evening. He's out with his 
 buckets now. I suspect he thinks we must be insane 
 to want it. But I forget you don't know Annibale. 
 
 "He and Fannia have been using this place for 
 eight months and more, as a stronghold against local 
 public opinion. She's the daughter of the old rascal 
 we came ashore with. His family and Annibale's 
 have been enemies for half a century. They're not 
 quite sure what commenced it. Our man thinks it 
 was some matter of a chicken-crate. 
 
 "Annibale's an orphan but don't pity him on 
 that account! He decided one day that he wanted 
 to many Fannia. He used to loaf under her win- 
 dow after midnight. She fell in love with his looks. 
 
 "Old Ilario, when he got wind of this, tried to 
 shove a knife into Annibale, a Sunday morning after 
 Mass. Ilario, it seems, intended to marry Fannia 
 to the post-office clerk a brilliant match. Anni- 
 bale took the knife away from Ilario in front of all 
 the village; and next evening he took away Ilario's
 
 204 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 daughter. For baggage, he had a rifle that I should 
 hesitate to explode, and she had her coperta del letto 
 matrimoniale, her wedding-counterpane, that she'd 
 been working on since she was twelve years old. 
 Perhaps you've noticed it on your bed. 
 
 "She had the counterpane, that is, but not the 
 wedding. To come down to be married would prob- 
 ably have been the death of several people. The 
 priest was a reasonable soul, however: he stood ready 
 to waive ceremony and come up. But Ilario 
 wouldn't give consent. 
 
 "So they stayed on as they were. Every week or 
 so, in the day-time, Annibale has to shoot off his rifle 
 at Ilario, to discourage him from sneaking up the hill- 
 side. At night, no one would think of trying it. 
 There's a superstition down there that this place is 
 full of ghosts, as soon as dusk sets in. I haven't 
 seen them. Neither has Fannia or Annibale. All 
 the same, they're both convinced the ghosts exist. 
 But there's no choice between invisible phantoms 
 and the thought of losing each other. They're still 
 lovers, apparently. And I think they've been very 
 happy here. 
 
 "Annibale cultivates a vegetable-patch. Fannia 
 gathers wild grapes and olives, and makes oil and 
 wine. From time to time one of his friends would 
 slip half-way up the path and leave a few luxuries 
 matches, cigarettes, a piece of brown sugar, an egg or 
 two. They didn't starve. But our arrival was de- 
 cidedly a fall of luck for them. From present indi- 
 cations, the only thing to drag them down now will
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 205 
 
 be the necessity of baptizing the baby. The baby, 
 of course, will have to be baptized no matter who 
 dies for it. ... They might ask us to stand god- 
 parents!" 
 
 She turned her head, to stare with wild eyes at 
 this being who, at such an hour, could talk so. 
 Surely, this was the fiendish cruelty of a cat playing 
 with a captured mouse! 
 
 No doubt he read her thoughts. His face changed. 
 He stood up, and paced among the flowers of the ter- 
 race. His head bent, his hands clasped behind his 
 back, he seemed to be struggling with a desire to 
 speak, to show her his real thoughts, to make a pro- 
 fession that both of them were afraid to hear. . . . 
 All he said was: 
 
 "Roses, too. . . . One might train them to climb 
 that lemon-tree, and cover it with pink, in time. . . . 
 But Annibale must clear out all these thistles. . . . 
 And build a fence round the edge. ..." 
 
 He turned to fix his sombre eyes on hers. 
 
 "I beg of you not to walk out here in the dark." 
 
 Her heart beat faster. A strange light must have 
 leaped into her eyes. After a time, without replying, 
 she leaned her head against the chair-back, and 
 averted her face. 
 
 The zenith was changing to the greenish-blue of 
 turquoises. Low in the west, an orange glow was 
 fading. The long ribbon of clouds, a hand-breadth 
 above the horizon, had turned from mauve to purple. 
 And purple shadows were creeping in, from either 
 side, across the sea.
 
 206 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 He said, in a dull voice: 
 
 "I'll leave you to yourself. If you want Fannia, 
 clap your hands." 
 
 He hesitated, before concluding: 
 
 "She has instructions to sleep in a corner of your 
 room to-night. Or, if you prefer, outside your 
 door. . . ." 
 
 He went into the house. 
 
 And Ghirlaine continued to look out across the 
 western sea. 
 
 All the world lay beyond that far horizon. As its 
 radiance grew dim, the last of hope, and even life 
 itself, seemed fading. 
 
 There stood forth for an instant, and then shredded 
 away, vistas of great rooms lined with mirrors, 
 paintings, gilding, where old chandeliers let down 
 their blaze and glitter above jewel-crowned heads, 
 silver epaulets, satin and brocade, snowy arms, red, 
 smiling lips. Faces flashed forth Mme. de Chau- 
 mont's, containing pitiable secrets, Sangallo's, full of 
 a mysterious comprehension, Princess Campobasso's, 
 as it had looked when the words broke from her, "To 
 be seized, to be carried away, by some one who is 
 really strong. ..." Mme. Semadeni's inscrutable 
 smile was last of all to go: but something of her a 
 suggestion of the perfume she affected, a tone of the 
 sea that was like the murmur of her voice remained, 
 as it had remained ever since that afternoon in the 
 palm-garden of the Excelsior, when she had uttered, 
 "This is strange. There is some sort of bond be- 
 tween you and me. ..." Only Vincent Pamfort's
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 207 
 
 countenance failed to drift before her vision. She 
 strove to see it. With a great effort, she succeeded. 
 . . . She sank back with a low cry. 
 
 "What a nightmare! What a nightmare!" 
 
 Still, something within kept reproaching her for 
 the collapse of all her old, habitual courage. To the 
 rest this crowning injury was added, of finding herself 
 no longer an individual. At the supreme test, she, 
 who had always gloried in her bravery and self-reli- 
 ance, lay prostrate, utterly disarmed of ingenuity 
 and strength! 
 
 A convulsive reaction brought her to her feet. 
 Swiftly, she went down through the flowers, came to 
 the edge, and peered over the precipice. 
 
 Far below, the water swelled lazily against the 
 shell-encrusted rocks. 
 
 Her head swam; an invisible force seemed to 
 strain suddenly at her equilibrium. With a wrench 
 backward, she saved herself. Retreating, her knees 
 weak, her forehead wet and cold, she whispered: 
 
 "Not yet!" 
 
 And she turned to stare round her, at the blank 
 windows of the villa, at the enveloping, still foliage, 
 and at the path, already shadowy, descending 
 through the trees. 
 
 And there, from behind a cactus hedge some dis- 
 tance down the slope, she saw, spying out at her, a 
 face, a young face half covered with a mop of tan- 
 gled hair the face of the youth who had been 
 with them in the fishing-boat. 
 
 An answer to her prayers?
 
 208 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 His face disappeared. But she knew he was still 
 there. She made a stealthy sign for him to stay, 
 and ran into the house. 
 
 To send a message out to that world beyond the 
 sea! 
 
 She remembered the post-card hidden in her dress. 
 But pen and ink? Or a pencil? Her room was 
 empty of such things. 
 
 On the deal table stood the soiled plates, the straw- 
 covered flask, a tumbler of thick red wine. On the 
 floor she found the end of a wax match. With bated 
 breath, listening for the slightest sound, she dipped 
 the match-end in the wine, and wrote laboriously, 
 across the blank space of the post-card: 
 
 A prisoner on Turrigianti. The house on the headland. 
 Ghirlaine Bellamy. 
 
 To whom? To Vincent? Too far! Sangallo? 
 And what address? But every one in Rome would 
 know Sangallo. 
 
 Ernesto Sangallo, Roma. . . . 
 
 The moment it was dry, she slipped out, and down 
 the path. 
 
 The spy had made off. But she heard a rustling 
 farther down the hillside. She found him wriggling 
 through a clump of aloes. As he sprang to his feet 
 for headlong flight, she caught him by the arm. 
 The leaves concealed them. 
 
 He glared at her like a wild animal entrapped, with
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 209 
 
 mingled fear and animosity, yet with another emo- 
 tion also smouldering in his small, savage eyes. 
 His nostrils expanded, his bronzed chest heaved be- 
 neath the wreck of a striped jersey. He was under- 
 sized, almost emaciated, but covered with lean 
 muscles. From his trousers pocket protruded the 
 bone handle of a knife. 
 
 Nevertheless, he must be the instrument of her 
 salvation! 
 
 She thrust the post-card into his hand. Her gest- 
 ures explained her wish, and the necessity of silence. 
 When he had understood that much, he slowly raised 
 his shoulders, and let a look of sullen indifference 
 cross his face. He muttered: 
 
 "Eh! Ma cu paga?" 
 
 With a short, violent movement, he pointed to the 
 corner of the post-card, where a stamp ought to 
 have been affixed. 
 
 ' ' Cu paga ? Cu paga il francubullu ? Eh!" 
 
 She took out the diamond chain, and pointed to his 
 knife-hilt. Reluctantly, he drew the weapon from 
 his pocket, watched her for a moment in distrust, 
 then snapped forth the long spring-blade. With the 
 point she pried loose a diamond, and shook it into 
 his hand. Would he understand its value? 
 
 When she had put the chain back into her bosom, 
 his gaze, which remained fixed with an almost terrific 
 covetousness on her breast, apprised her that he, 
 at least, knew what diamonds were. And too late 
 she saw that his face was strangely crooked, one eye 
 higher than the other, his mouth cruel and false,
 
 210 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 about all his features, at that instant, a look of thor- 
 oughly mature depravity. The visage of a criminal 
 degenerate! 
 
 He held the open knife in one hand, the diamond 
 in the other. He looked at her, looked down at the 
 weapon and the jewel as if weighing them, looked 
 round him with a swift, stealthy eagerness, like a 
 cat's. But he heard some sound, and saw the trees 
 all thick with dusk. He started, glared about him 
 fearsomely, and scrambled down the hillside. 
 
 Frightened, almost despairing, but hoping against 
 hope, she called after him the entreaty: 
 
 "To-night?" 
 
 He threw up one hand, and disappeared. She 
 turned back. 
 
 Near the summit, she came on Annibale, running 
 down noiselessly, bent double, rifle in hand. When 
 he saw her he stopped short, stood erect, and touched 
 his forehead. In full, grave tones, he uttered some 
 remonstrance. 
 
 She went on to the villa. 
 
 From the portico she looked toward the west again. 
 
 Was her effort to succeed? Would rescue come? 
 Was she to find again, hi time, the world beyond 
 that sea? . . . 
 
 Twilight unrolled across the heavens, swiftly, like 
 a spangled veil. 
 
 She entered the house. With lighted candle 
 Fannia appeared, changed from the afternoon, mute 
 and impassive now. Worn out by emotion, Ghir- 
 laine let the girl undress her.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 211 
 
 On her narrow bed, _covered with the peasant's 
 marriage-counterpane, she heard the night breeze 
 spring up among the branches. The waves resumed 
 their murmur. Presently, she was listening to his 
 footfalls in the portico. 
 
 Deliberate and heavy, they approached her win- 
 dow. They paused, then receded. . . . 
 
 They approached again, and again receded. . . . 
 
 That sound went on for hours.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 SEBASTIAN, sitting in the sunny portico, heard 
 Annibale and Fannia talking somewhere in the house. 
 The girl's voice came distinctly through the silence: 
 
 "I always thought I'd be afraid of a mad person." 
 
 "Why so? The hermit is mad; but who's afraid 
 of him? Besides, this Signura's only half-mad, evi- 
 dently. All foreigners are that." 
 
 "But why should a rich lady want my post-card 
 of Girgenti?" 
 
 " Cuspettu! Are you asking me now to find reasons 
 for what a woman wants?" 
 
 "Then she pointed to her wedding ringer, and made 
 signs that she was afraid of the Padruni." 
 
 "Probably her ring slipped off hi the sea, and she's 
 afraid that when he finds it out he'll beat her." 
 
 "Mai 'cchiu! Do big pieces beat their wives, like 
 common folk?" 
 
 "Why not! I take it ladies are also women. 
 Being women, they must often need a beating. 
 That's reasoning!" 
 
 Presently, he added, in a lower tone: 
 
 "As for all that, who knows anything? What he 
 has told me is probably all lies. Who tells the truth, 
 in this world, if he can help it? Perhaps he's running 
 away from something. He looks like a great thief, 
 anyway, who would as soon kill a man as a mos-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 213 
 
 quito. Perhaps she isn't his wife at all. What 
 business is that of ours? We eat, and get wages. 
 Only, if things begin to go wrong with us, and it 
 turns out that he has the evil eye, it's easy enough 
 to slip and fall against him, some day when he and I 
 are looking over the cliffs together. ..." 
 
 "Do you want to spend the rest of your life in the 
 ergastulu?" 
 
 "An accident is an accident. I should steal noth- 
 ing. We could weep and tear our hair in front of 
 the woman, and she would pardon us." 
 
 "Che! Leave tricks, when tricks are necessary, to 
 us others. Men are nothing but children, after 
 aU. . . ." 
 
 Sebastian could not refrain from grinning. This 
 revelation of character diverted him. He felt 
 no indignation. These people were merely them- 
 selves. . . . 
 
 Fannia spoke again, reflectively: 
 
 "How long did he say they had been married?" 
 
 "Two years, three years what do I know?" 
 
 "There is one lie, at least. For she has never had 
 any children." 
 
 "Who says that?" 
 
 " I say it. I who see her in her room." 
 
 A silence. At length, she continued: 
 
 "What was she doing when you found her down 
 the hillside?" 
 
 "Who knows? Still, after she'd come up, I saw a 
 man in a striped jersey running away. I could have 
 shot him. But nowadays, when our stomachs are
 
 214 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 full of food, one thinks twice of stirring up the cara- 
 bineers for nothing. Besides, it wasn't your father. 
 It looked like Nino with the crooked eyes." 
 
 "Little Nino! It would be a new thing for him to 
 spy on us." 
 
 "Times are changed. There's money in the house. 
 And Nino has been to Naples. They even say that 
 when he was in Naples he became an apprentice to 
 the Camorra." 
 
 "Who says so?" 
 
 After a while, Annibale's voice responded, sullenly : 
 
 "No one. I should be a fine fool to gossip with a 
 woman!" 
 
 " Eh ! And who could I tell it to, up here ! " 
 
 "See that you don't, all the same. . . ." 
 
 "Maybe it wasn't Nino. Perhaps it was one of 
 the Old Ones?" 
 
 "No doubt in a striped jersey! Madrecidda, 
 what a lot of empty chattering! Wages to earn, 
 supper to cook, and no fagots in the kitchen!" 
 
 "These days I can't bring in the load I used to." 
 
 "Ah. . . . Puviredda poor little one, I keep for- 
 getting! Stay here. I'll fetch them for you. . . ." 
 
 And Annibale, clad in undershirt and trousers, 
 came out on the portico. 
 
 When he saw Sebastian sitting near an open win- 
 dow, he looked confused. But the other bade him 
 take a chair. The young man's startlingly handsome 
 face regained its service-expression, of grave dignity 
 and self-respect. Lowering his powerful body, with 
 a deprecatory gesture, into the seat, he accepted a
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 215 
 
 cigarette as courteously as a prince. His large, 
 brown feet planted firmly on the pavement, he 
 awaited conversation. 
 
 " Annibale, all this talk of ghosts is interesting me." 
 
 "Truly, Signuri? But perhaps there are none in 
 Russia?" 
 
 "Only ordinary ones, that tip tables, and rattle 
 tambourines." 
 
 " Mah! They must have little to do ! " 
 
 "And how do these amuse themselves?" 
 
 "Should I know? They lead their life, as they 
 have since the beginning. For they've always been 
 here, the Old Ones. They're a part of Turrigianti, 
 like its rocks. The tale runs " 
 
 He reflected, then looked at Sebastian askance, as 
 if measuring his courage. 
 
 " Would your Excellency care to see their dwelling- 
 place?" 
 
 "If it doesn't affect you too unpleasantly." 
 
 "Ah, Signuri, I've lived near them these nine 
 months! Besides, the sun's still high. And we 
 can stay hidden in the trees. Only, we mustn't let 
 Fannia know or the Signura. Women don't under- 
 stand the pleasures of danger." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "But of course not, Signuri. And very fortu- 
 nately. If God had not made them that way, there 
 would be no holding them at all!" 
 
 He took his rifle from inside the door, and led the 
 way round the house, toward the northern ridge. 
 
 Back of the villa, the vegetation appeared impen-
 
 216 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 etrable. Branches and roots of wild-olive were in- 
 terlaced like the limbs of wrestlers. Old vines, of 
 grape, and rose-convolvulus, spread everywhere a 
 net-work of mature festoons. And each short vista, 
 between the walls of green, was obscured by a mass 
 of cactus-spikes, a rampart of dagger-leaved agaves, 
 or a screen of roses clinging to the bark of cork- 
 trees. 
 
 But Annibale found a tortuous passage through 
 this labyrinth. They emerged suddenly on the 
 northern cliffs. 
 
 The guide pointed over the precipice. Below, the 
 sea was bright with foam. 
 
 " Caves are down there." 
 
 "I saw them as we came in. A damp place, even 
 for ghosts." 
 
 "Oh, the Old Ones live better than that!" 
 
 He led the way eastward along the edge. Sebas- 
 tian found himself descending the sheer side of the 
 crags, by a path, not two feet wide, carved out of 
 the living rock in steps. 
 
 "Who made this path?" 
 
 Annibale, turning, on that airy ledge, indifferent 
 to the peril of his position, explained: 
 
 "Signuri, it's always been here. It runs along the 
 north side, to a point above the town. But I've 
 never troubled to guard it. To come at the villa by 
 this way, one would have to pass too close to Them." 
 
 He resumed his course. 
 
 Before them, the path continued to descend grad- 
 ually for a space, then, as the cliffs rose higher again,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 217 
 
 ascended. At its dip, there appeared through the 
 foliage a tiny valley, running back inland, and occu- 
 pied by some sort of crumbling stone structure. But 
 Annibale stopped, crossed himself, and put a finger 
 to his lips. 
 
 "There, Signuri," he whispered. "The home of 
 the Old Ones." 
 
 "Then let's get on, and have a look at it." 
 
 "Go farther!" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because we should never come back." 
 
 He moistened his lips. 
 
 "Signuri, I can see that you are brave enough to 
 try it; but you don't know that the Old Ones are not 
 to be defied like men. In my grandfather's time, 
 that was finally understood for good. A sailor came 
 home to Turrigianti, after seeing the world. His first 
 act was to laugh at us, for still respecting the Old 
 Ones. So, to show us what fools we were, he came 
 up here, as he said to make an end of silly super- 
 stitions. My grandfather saw him go into that 
 house. But no one ever saw him come out again. . . . 
 
 "Eh, when the priest heard it if he was angry! 
 He came up stamping, in his vestments, with holy 
 water, to exorcise the spirits or to discover what 
 had happened to the other. He went in praying. 
 Teh! He never came out. . . . That taught us our 
 lesson." 
 
 A gust of wind set all the branches swaying. Far 
 below, a wave broke against the rocks. 
 
 " Signuri, when the world was new, Turrigianti was
 
 218 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 the first home of men and gods. For that reason its 
 ancient name is the Isle of Life. Perhaps it was the 
 Garden of Eden? . . . 
 
 "At any rate, when our blessed Lord and Saviour, 
 Jesus Christ, visited this earth, all the old gods of the 
 heathen ran away. It's said they came back here, 
 where they'd been born, to hide. That they are the 
 Old Ones. That God allows them this little corner 
 for their own, out of pity for their downfall. 
 
 "Who knows for sure? But sometimes people 
 have heard them, inside their house, talking together 
 with big soft voices in a strange language, and cry- 
 ing. ... I heard them once myself. . . . Shall we 
 be going home?" 
 
 "You are going home, Annibale, to gather Fannia's 
 fagots. I'll follow this path to the village." 
 
 "Signuri!" 
 
 Annibale's face turned pale. With a passionate 
 gesture, he put out his arm, to block the narrow way. 
 The other, smiling, remonstrated: 
 
 "There's no room here to get excited. Stand 
 against the wall. Those are my orders." 
 
 For a moment Annibale gazed at him wildly, as 
 if planning disobedience. Then his face, altering, 
 showed, perhaps, something of the fatalism of remote 
 Arab ancestors. 
 
 "Pass, Signuri," he uttered quietly, and stood 
 back. 
 
 Sebastian slid round him, and descended to the 
 valley. 
 
 There, in a nest of sunny green, drowsed the ruin
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 219 
 
 of a small Doric temple, Round it, some broken 
 columns, moss-covered, lay like fallen tree-trunks 
 amid the brambles. But the walls themselves, of 
 massive, uncemented blocks, with crevices full of 
 grass, stood firm. Even the roof, beneath its thatch 
 of flowers, seemed intact. 
 
 He approached the narrow doorway. Within, a 
 stone screen, reaching from pavement to ceiling, hid 
 the sanctuary. He put foot upon the threshold. 
 
 ' ' Signuri ! Signuri ! ' ' 
 
 It was Annibale, calling out from the cliffs, in 
 desperation. 
 
 Sebastian stepped inside. 
 
 And, from the blackness, there issued a sound as if 
 of giants stirring in their sleep, mumbling deep, unin- 
 telligible messages. 
 
 "Curious! There must be an echo-well in here, 
 that leads down to the sea? " 
 
 But remembering the sailor and the priest, he did 
 not advance at once. 
 
 With one foot firmly planted near the threshold, 
 he tried the great blocks of pavement cautiously. 
 He found all firm before the screen, stepped round it, 
 and struck a match. A dry rattling re-echoed, as 
 lizards ran into the corners. And again that sound, 
 as of monstrous voices, burst forth with an articu- 
 lation weirdly human. 
 
 But there was nothing in the temple save some 
 loose fragments of stone, and a low altar set against 
 the rear wall. 
 
 "Not even bones? Then of course, the floor's the 
 answer."
 
 220 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Stooping down, he blew away the dust, and eyed 
 the cracks. From the corner he rolled out a weighty 
 rock, and pushed it forward upon one end of a broad 
 slab of pavement. 
 
 In a flash, the slab swung perpendicular on its axis. 
 At either side yawned an inky pit. With a terrific 
 rumble, and to a roar like daimonic laughter, the 
 rock dropped into the depths. Instantly, the slab 
 crashed back into place. The floor was smooth 
 again. 
 
 "By George! Not bad, after all these centuries!" 
 
 When he had proved the pavement elsewhere, he 
 examined the altar. 
 
 Small, like a box set up on end, rough-hewn, still 
 showing chisel-marks, its top was hollowed out, 
 where once a sacrificial fire had burned to some 
 divinity. On its front, letters were graven. And 
 Sebastian finally made out archaic Greek characters: 
 
 "To the Unknown God. . . ." 
 
 For a time, he contemplated this relic of long-dead 
 devotion this symbol of mankind's perpetual hope, 
 blind and yet constant, born, as it were, in darkness, 
 yet rising perennially through the shades in search of 
 light. His match went out. The sanctuary was en- 
 gulfed in blackness. And the mysterious voices, 
 issuing from the region of the altar, beat round him 
 like the voices of immortals who, for thousands of 
 years, in that solitude, had reiterated patiently the 
 same cryptic message, while waiting for his coming. 
 
 Sebastian smiled grimly.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 221 
 
 "Clever old devils! They must have made a fat 
 thing of this, once on a time." 
 
 He struck a fresh match, and returned to the 
 doorway. 
 
 Before the temple, in the sunshine, crouched Anni- 
 bale. His face was distorted by a conflict of terror 
 and courage. Quivering all over, he was on the 
 point of springing forward. But when he saw Sebas- 
 tian on the threshold, his jaws sank down. 
 
 "Annibale, I thought you were going home?" 
 
 ' ' Sanguinacciu ! ' ' 
 
 " Since you're still here, come in, and let me intro- 
 duce you to the Old Ones." 
 
 The young man pulled himself together with a 
 shudder. Then, after a long look into the other's 
 eyes, he followed through the doorway. 
 
 Sebastian demonstrated the mechanism of the pit- 
 fall, illuminated the altar, exposed the echo-well be- 
 hind it. Still, Annibale could not realize the facts. 
 At last, however, his blank visage developed a pro- 
 found chagrin, humiliation, and, possibly, regret. 
 
 "Only that!" 
 
 And presently, in a whisper: 
 
 " Signuri, it must never be known, this disgrace to 
 Turrigianti!" 
 
 "Especially, as it would bring the villa much too 
 near the town." 
 
 "Eccu! It must never be known!" 
 
 He touched the altar gingerly. 
 
 "What does the writing say, Signuri?" 
 
 "That men have always been fools."
 
 222 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Then, pri Baccu, there's some truth in this place, 
 after all!" 
 
 They returned to the sunshine. 
 
 "Expect me back at nightfall, Annibale. . . ." 
 
 Leaving him in a daze, Sebastian resumed his way 
 along the cliff-side, eastward. 
 
 The ledge-like path again clung to the face of those 
 gigantic ramparts. At one point, it expanded into a 
 platform. Beyond, it dwinolled quickly to its former 
 breadth, where a careless step would mean destruc- 
 tion. But abruptly it ascended to the summit. Se- 
 bastian gained the rim of Torregiante's natural am- 
 phitheatre. Below him, to the south, there fell away 
 the wooded slope, to meet the little cultivated fields, 
 which, hi their turn, ran down to the crescent of the 
 village and the beach. 
 
 While preparing to descend, he noticed on the 
 eastern heights, directly across the island from the 
 villa, one lonely hut. The hermit, no doubt? 
 
 He went down the hillside. 
 
 In these groves, stunted firs brushed pomegranates, 
 stone-pines overshadowed the red trunks of pillaged 
 cork-trees, here and there a pale shaft of lignum vitae 
 rose amid the silver-green of olives. Through the 
 still air came a bird-like twittering the music of a 
 pipe. And in a rocky clearing Sebastian saw a flock 
 of thin, brown goats, with abnormally developed 
 udders, bells tinkling at their necks. 
 
 Near by, on the grass, a half -naked child sat watch- 
 ing them, as wildly beautiful as a faun. His sun- 
 bleached hair streamed down over his large, lustrous
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 223 
 
 eyes. He was playing ofl a flute of donax-reeds 
 just such an instrument as might have roused the 
 echoes of this spot when nymphs and satyrs were be- 
 lieved to dwell here. 
 
 "Good-evening, Pan," said Sebastian. 
 
 The child, his eyes darkening curiously, regarded 
 the stranger without winking. The goats raised 
 their malevolently cunning faces, and all stood mo- 
 tionless. 
 
 "My name is not Pan, Signuri." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "No, Signuri. My name is Little Paganni." 
 
 "And I am the Signuri from the Place-Up-There." 
 
 "So every one knows," the child responded slowly, 
 and made a stealthy gesture behind his back. Sebas- 
 tian smiled. 
 
 " Why do you do that, Little Paganni? You think 
 I have the evil eye?" 
 
 Again the small goatherd's irises changed color. 
 Without moving, his body seemed subtly to recoil. 
 But his little brown fingers gripped the donax-flute 
 more tightly, as he retorted : 
 
 "So they say, Signuri." 
 
 "That's something to know!" 
 
 "Sissignvri. Such things are good to know." 
 
 Sebastian tossed him some coppers. 
 
 "At least, my money won't bring you bad luck?" 
 
 "No, Signuri. For if it stuck to money, my fa- 
 ther wouldn't have taken his twenty lire from you." 
 
 "So! And who is your father, Little Paganni? 
 Isitoldllario?"
 
 224 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Old Ilario! Ma 'cche! My father is Big Pa- 
 ganni." 
 
 "And, by any chance, is Nino with the crooked 
 eyes your brother? " 
 
 "Nino? Nino is nobody's brother. He is a for- 
 eigner. He has been to the end of the world to 
 Naples, even. He writes letters to Naples, and they 
 go by the ship. He wrote one last night." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Eh, when one writes a letter, everybody knows! 
 Why not?" 
 
 "Little Paganni, to talk with you is well worth the 
 money." 
 
 "For me too, Signuri. Now I can buy an amulet 
 against the evil eye." 
 
 "A sensible idea, since we might meet frequently. 
 ... To see you again, Pan." 
 
 "To see you again, Signuri," the child answered, 
 with mature composure. 
 
 Sebastian went on his way. 
 
 Soon the trees gave place to grape-vines, straggling 
 in low bushes. Cornfields appeared, bright with 
 Sciacca lilies and poppies. Finally, in shallow ter- 
 races, came the garden patches, over which hovered 
 a blue-and-yellow mist of butterflies. 
 
 But below, spread out the crazy roofs, the cracked 
 house-walls streaked below the windows, the stair- 
 cases ending in garbage-heaps, near which, through 
 mingled refuse and wild flowers, wandered some bony, 
 dejected-looking donkeys. The freshened east wind 
 spread a pestilential odor here. Sebastian reflected :
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 225 
 
 "What an ideal place tor an epidemic!" 
 
 Passing between two tottering houses, through an 
 alley that was apparently an open sewer, he emerged 
 on the stone-paved water-front. 
 
 The beached fishing-boats stood empty. The 
 post-office and the few miserable shops were shut- 
 tered. Round a sort of tunnel, labelled "The Grand 
 Cafe of the Sea," lounged a crowd of men. 
 
 The younger ones seemed uncomfortable in cheap 
 Sunday suits of violet and coffee-colored German 
 cloth. The very old displayed short jackets of green 
 velvet, tight knee-breeches, red stocking-caps. And 
 nearly all were staring, with grave preoccupation, at 
 the girls who, arm in arm, paraded self-consciously 
 along the dirty esplanade. 
 
 Their glossy coiffures were remarkable. Brass 
 pendants dangled from their ears. Their hips undu- 
 lated slowly under skirts of threadbare brocade old 
 family heirlooms. From time to time, they clutched 
 with rough fingers at their head-shawls, which the 
 wind whipped out in ripples of bright yellow, laven- 
 der, and pink. It was an hour of delight and triumph 
 for them, this promenade! All of them, knowing 
 perfectly the interest they excited in the men in- 
 corrigible amateurs of beauty till their dying day 
 wore on their full lips, curved in a certain way from 
 long, secret contemplation of sentimental things, a 
 shadowy smile of exultation and, as it were, ex- 
 pectancy. 
 
 On the beach, where an old black pig, with spindle- 
 shanks, was rooting in the offal, two carabineers
 
 226 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 gazed forth at the rising sea. To-day, they had 
 donned their silvery epaulets and shoulder-cords; 
 their cocked hats were ornamented with blue and 
 scarlet plumes. 
 
 It was afesta. 
 
 The Marshal of carabineers made haste to greet 
 Sebastian. 
 
 "Yes, Excellency in fact, the great festa of the 
 year for Torregiante. The feast of the local patron, 
 Saint Giosue the Admiral. Presently we shall have a 
 procession. Don Vigilio is getting it ready at the 
 church. But it won't be till dark, on account of the 
 illuminations!" 
 
 And with the derisive smile of one who has seen a 
 different sort of pageant, he pointed up to the log- 
 gias. There women were setting out rows of candles 
 in paper cornucopias. 
 
 All the islanders stood looking at Sebastian in 
 silence. Every face expressed distrust, uneasiness, 
 or smothered hostility. Old Ilario's wrinkled visage 
 peered at him from the wine-shop door, then was 
 swiftly averted. The blackish fisherman the Big 
 Paganni with the features of an Arab, looked 
 elaborately at the sky. 
 
 And this inimical atmosphere seemed part of the 
 gathering storm, that one could see stealing in across 
 the spray-filled waste. 
 
 "Well," said Sebastian, "as everything's closed 
 tight, I'll go." 
 
 "And not wait for the procession?" 
 
 "The Signora "
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 227 
 
 "Ah! My humble respects, your Excellency." 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 Leaving the beach, he took the hillside path toward 
 the villa. 
 
 Across the sky gray clouds were racing westward. 
 Already their shadows lay cold on the high wall of the 
 villa. Beyond that point, the sun was sinking into a 
 sea of blood. Through the woods a long, shivering 
 groan resounded. 
 
 Half-way up, he saw, amid the underbrush, a 
 scrap of paper gleaming in the dusk. He climbed 
 over some bushes, and picked up a fragment of a 
 post-card. It was scrawled with faint red writing: 
 
 . . . Ernesto .... 
 
 He turned it over. 
 
 . . . on the headland .... ttamy .... 
 
 Rousing himself, he looked for the rest of that 
 message. But he found no more. 
 
 At last he put the fragment in his pocket, and went 
 on slowly to the summit. 
 
 There Annibale, rifle in hand, was waiting for him 
 beneath the tossing branches. Side by side, the two 
 big men contemplated the east. 
 
 Over the island, the onrushing clouds, violent in 
 outline, leaden-hued, but touched here and there by 
 smoky red, seemed to be raining down dark ashes shot 
 with sombre flames. The wind-whipped sea was 
 ghastly gray, and flecked as if with blood. Along the 
 curving beach, uneven rows of lights were winking 
 and going out.
 
 228 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "A bad night for Saint Giosue!" 
 
 Fannia came toward them noiselessly on her bare 
 feet, erect, her large outline showing with a certain 
 strange majesty against the western conflagration. 
 Said Annibale: 
 
 "Signuri, we should like to go part- way down, and 
 watch the procession?" 
 
 "What about the Signura?" 
 
 "In her room, as always." 
 
 "She's gone to bed, Signuri," Fannia told him. 
 " I took her supper in an hour ago. Shall I serve the 
 Signuri's supper now? " 
 
 "I want none. Go on down, and watch for Saint 
 Giosue. But the rain will catch you." 
 
 "Oh, that makes no difference, Signuri!" 
 
 "The rain will wash our clothes for us." 
 
 Hand hi hand, with swinging steps, they descended 
 through the gloom. 
 
 The west had faded. The eastern sky became 
 opaque. The dim vertebrae of the village were 
 eclipsed. The lurid waters seemed sinking gradu- 
 ally into a black abyss. All the world appeared on 
 the verge of being blotted out. But the little rows 
 of lights still flickered bravely, though with widening 
 hiatuses. And now the wind bore to this high head- 
 land, out of the void, the faint clatter of a church- 
 bell. 
 
 On the invisible promontory where the church 
 must be, there grew a wavering radiance. It was the 
 gleam of many torches clustered round indistinguish- 
 able, glistening objects. It was the procession.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 229 
 
 Soon, behind the torches, showed forth a mass of 
 white robes, banners struggling to stand, and a high, 
 golden thing that tossed from side to side, yet always 
 reared its top again, and staggered on. 
 
 Lights blew out in patches, to be immediately re- 
 kindled. Sometimes the banners vanished, but pres- 
 ently they were up and moving. It was a desper- 
 ate contest, that persistence of pygmies against the 
 rushing darkness. It resembled a battle, waged 
 against vast forces of oblivion, by atoms who would 
 not give up their faith. . . . 
 
 When for an instant the moaning of the trees, and 
 the boom of waves against the cliffs, abated, one 
 heard a faint eerie sound, of men and children 
 singing. . . . 
 
 Below the twinkling loggias and windows, the pro- 
 cession crawled round the beach. In a core of torch- 
 light, the tall, golden object was revealed a car, no 
 doubt of lath and tinsel, surmounted by a cross. 
 Round it flashed other crosses, and square, ecclesi- 
 astic banners veiled in smoke. 
 
 And those emblems, however haltingly, however 
 often swallowed by the night, were always reillu- 
 minated, elevated, and pushed onward. They ap- 
 proached the rising ground. They even seemed 
 about to climb the hillside. It was as if those sa- 
 cred symbols would not rest till they had reeled up 
 through the tempest, and brought light and succor 
 to this summit. 
 
 He watched them almost with the intensity of a 
 man who waits for the outcome of an augury. . . .
 
 230 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Yet when finally they turned back, he felt no 
 relief. 
 
 For he knew that even in this place, despite all his 
 ruthlessness, luck, and ingenuity, discovery could 
 only be a matter of a little while. 
 
 The story of her loss would be spread broadcast. 
 The carabineers were bound to send in their report. 
 And the coincidence of this strange rescue from the 
 sea would straightway suggest investigation. 
 
 In fact, his tale, his letters, his whole scheme of de- 
 ception, had really been put forward without hope. 
 
 And already she herself had nearly succeeded, 
 somehow, hi giving the alarm! 
 
 It had begun in madness, but it would be greater 
 madness to expect anything save complete retribu- 
 tion. 
 
 Still, as he stared down at the receding torches, he 
 discerned, as it were, hi that withdrawal a momen- 
 tary reprieve. 
 
 "Meanwhile! . . ." 
 
 Meanwhile, the moment might be made to pay for 
 an eternity of punishment? . . . 
 
 The lights were engulfed by rain. With an un- 
 earthly wail, to a wide-spread cracking of tree-trunks, 
 the full violence of the storm burst round him. It 
 roused an answering violence in his heart. The 
 wind seemed to tear from him the little he had ever 
 known of forbearance and remorse. On that scream- 
 ing height, nothing remained but the elements of 
 darkness and destruction. 
 
 Leaning heavily against the gale, he made his way
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 231 
 
 into the house. In his room he found a candle. He 
 lighted it, held it up, and walked into the corridor. 
 The rays, spreading out before him, rested at last on a 
 tight-shut door without a lock. 
 
 He listened. . . . No sound from inside. . . . 
 But the whole villa was shaking, as though seized 
 with terror. . . . 
 
 He knocked. In the open, a tree crashed down. 
 He knocked again. Even if she had answered, he 
 could not have heard her in that uproar. 
 
 He pushed against the door. Some weight was 
 braced against it. What? . . . Not she. . . . What 
 then? . . . Was it not, instead of that obstruction, 
 himself that baffled him some vast inhibition rising 
 up all suddenly to paralyze his strength, some un- 
 guessed power in him, roused from its long sleep, 
 struggling, and almost stronger than his fumy sav- 
 agery? . . . 
 
 He shook himself, set his jaws, and arched his 
 shoulders. That opposition, material or immaterial, 
 yielded. His weight against the panel, he drove 
 aside a heavy chest of drawers. . . . 
 
 A cry, and the creaking of a bed. 
 
 "You're awake?" 
 
 Silence. . . . 
 
 "Put something round you. I want to talk to 
 you." 
 
 Lifting the candle, he stepped into the room. 
 
 Tall, slender, all in white, she was standing with 
 her back against the shutters, her arms spread out 
 along the wall, her pale, slender feet clutching at the
 
 232 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 tiles. Over each shoulder hung down on her breast 
 a shimmering, thick braid. Her eyes were enor- 
 mous, and fixed on his with an expression he had 
 never seen in any eyes before. 
 
 She looked like Artemis, disarmed, isolated, ut- 
 terly at bay, yet shining still with a divine defiance.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 SHE saw him set down the candle, toss his drip- 
 ping hat into a chair, and shut the door. Still the 
 gale penetrated that dim room. The light flickered. 
 Over walls and ceiling moved swiftly monstrous 
 shadows, as of great, thronging wings. And she re- 
 membered Mme. Semadeni's words, uttered ages 
 ago, surely in another life: 
 
 " The wind of their wings sweeps us forward. . . ." 
 So, at last, they had swept her to this culmination 
 of all nightmares, finally to descend, and hover thick 
 about her head. 
 
 Raindrops covered Sebastian's rough suit of frieze. 
 His wet visage was colorless. And in that mask his 
 dark eyes gleamed with a violence which revealed the 
 storm within a storm perhaps even fiercer than the 
 tempest raging out of doors. He looked like the per- 
 sonification of those strident elements that hurled 
 themselves against the villa the epitome of their 
 destructive force and tamelessness. The last shreds 
 of the thin disguise which he had worn so carelessly 
 in Rome were swept away. She felt that she was 
 face to face with something, as it were, utterly pri- 
 mordial. 
 
 But she heard him repeating, in a strange voice: 
 "Come, please put something round you. ..." 
 He perceived, on a chair by the bed, the yellow 
 
 233
 
 234 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 shawl. To forestall his approach, she snatched it 
 up, and wrapped it round her shoulders. He con- 
 tinued to peer about him. 
 
 "I certainly brought up some slippers with the 
 other things. ..." 
 
 Suddenly, in quivering tones, she cried: 
 
 "Is there nothing natural about you? Nothing 
 human? Nothing to make you realize all you've 
 done, and what you're doing?" 
 
 Somewhere a door slammed shut. Through the 
 crashing of the storm, a laugh sounded and was 
 stifled. Fannia and Annibale had come in. She 
 thought Two simple, honest souls not thirty feet 
 away! . . . But his big figure loomed before the 
 door. And she did not dare to make a movement 
 that might end his immobility. 
 
 At last, he uttered: 
 
 "I know; the world isn't like this. Such things 
 don't happen. It's an incredible business. That is, 
 if we look at it from the view-point of the others. 
 But there's a different view-point. And, strange as 
 it may seem to you, the natural one. 
 
 "A man desires a woman. Everything rises up to 
 oppose him. He breaks through all opposition, and 
 takes her. ... So men did, when they were them- 
 selves. So they do yet, in places where they've not 
 been civilized into slavery. So they may do even in 
 the midst of civilization, if they've remained indi- 
 viduals. 
 
 "What I've done, every man, who loves and has 
 been denied, would like to do, even to-day. Only,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 235 
 
 with those others, this thought has been repressed 
 by cowardice. I merely happen not to have been 
 affected that way. . . . 
 
 "When I first laid eyes on you, it seemed to me 
 that I saw a being absolutely unique, as solitary 
 amid all that extravagance and empty hubbub as 
 myself, more fatal than Helen, more precious than 
 life. I felt that I'd been searching for you always. 
 Something told me that no one in the universe but 
 you could bring me those unimaginable things that I 
 have never found, that I have been longing for for- 
 ever as a man, dying in the wilderness, longs for clear 
 water. ... To win you I'd have gone to infinitely 
 greater lengths than these. I could have torn down 
 cities, in another age, or plunged a whole land in 
 blood. You were worth any price inconceivable 
 consequences, penalties, and torments. 
 
 "Not sanity, but madness yet surely a divine 
 madness. It caught us up together and cast us 
 here, into this wild solitude, into the heart of this 
 tempest. . . . 
 
 " Hark how it blows ! It sweeps everything before 
 it. All nature bends or breaks. It is the very voice 
 of Fate. . . . 
 
 "Ah, most beautiful, most precious thing in all the 
 world, you'll never find another love like this, or an- 
 other such immortal hour! All we've lived apart, 
 all we had planned apart, was false. The truth 
 never began for you and me until the day we met. 
 It lies nowhere save in depths of your eyes and mine. 
 Let's read it there at last! . ."
 
 236 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 She realized that he was closer to her. She saw his 
 hands stretched out. And as once before, it was his 
 hands that frightened her the most, that made her 
 suddenly weaker and nearer faintness, that seemed, 
 being so insidiously fine and different from the rest of 
 him, the hands of a more perilous personality than he 
 was himself, if perilousness lay in such suggestion as 
 had never before touched her. . . . 
 
 In that moment, she felt that this scene had always 
 been preparing. Pictures flashed before her eyes in 
 swift succession rooms, landscapes, faces, in every 
 combination fashioned to make ready this hour. 
 Crushed beneath this conviction, so poignantly aware 
 of her loneliness and helplessness amid this solitude, 
 and the tempest that nature had called forth indoors 
 and out, she felt herself slipping, numb and hopeless, 
 into the trap of Destiny. But all at once, as those 
 altering pictures blurred before her eyes, she saw the 
 face of Vincent Pamfort. . . . 
 
 Courage returned to her in a hot flood. He was 
 close beside her. With one swift movement, she 
 whipped from beneath the pillow a long-bladed 
 kitchen-knife, and set the point against her breast. 
 Her head thrown back, looking at him through a 
 mist, she gasped: 
 
 "If you come nearer, if you raise your hand, I'll 
 drive this into my heart." 
 
 She did not expect him to believe her. Tense, 
 pulseless, with all her faculties centred on the fin- 
 gers round the knife-hilt, she awaited his onslaught 
 and effort to disarm her. His first gesture she was
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 237 
 
 ready to baffle in a flash. She felt sure her last hour 
 had struck. 
 
 And she was conscious, in that instant, not of fear, 
 but of a terrible exultation. After all, she would 
 triumph! 
 
 But he remained motionless. His features seemed 
 to leap forth all vivid, shorn of their last disguise. 
 His irises dilated. An intense pallor rilled his face. 
 His mouth moved spasmodically, but no words came. 
 His eyes remained fixed on the knife-point, which 
 pressed in the thin stuff of her night-dress under her 
 left breast. 
 
 In that room unrolled an eternity of silence. 
 
 At last, in a dead voice, he breathed: 
 
 "I'm going to step back. . . . Don't For 
 God's sake, don't mistake me. . . ." 
 
 Very slowly, he lowered his arm, retreated, and 
 leaned against the door. He looked dazed. His 
 forehead glistened. His deep chest heaved, as if he 
 had just emerged from some terrific struggle. For 
 the first time, she saw this man unstrung, helpless 
 from weakness, mastered. 
 
 There broke from his throat the words: 
 
 "You'd have done it!" 
 
 And presently he repeated: 
 
 "You'd have done it. You'd have destroyed all 
 that!" 
 
 He drew in a long, shivering breath. 
 
 " Give me your word If I promise you " 
 
 His voice failed him. He bowed his head, then 
 raised it, and achieved one straight look at her.
 
 238 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "I promise you. . . . No, to-morrow I'll promise 
 you. That's it. To-morrow. ..." 
 
 He turned blindly to the door, opened it, and left 
 the room. 
 
 The knife tinkled on the tiles. She collapsed 
 across the bed. 
 
 That night was interminable. . . . 
 
 Toward morning the storm abated. When day 
 had dawned, Ghirlaine pushed the shutters open, and 
 gazed across a tumultuous sea. Westward, dark 
 clouds were still massed heavily; but the wind had 
 changed. Low in the east, the sun was striving to 
 shine through ragged vapors. 
 
 Fannia entered with bread and coffee. Ghirlaine 
 bathed and dressed, went out to the portico, and 
 sank into a chair. Soon Sebastian came through the 
 devastated flower-beds, and stood before her. 
 
 Both were disfigured by exhaustion and emo- 
 tion. Their mutual alteration, their like evidences of 
 suffering at least they had that much in common! 
 It put them, somehow, more nearly on the same 
 ground. It seemed to make conflict impossible for 
 the moment. This morning they were equally dis- 
 armed. 
 
 Sitting down on the edge of the porch, he looked 
 about him. Over the sodden ground, and in the 
 portico, were scattered deep-red rose-petals, like 
 drops of blood. 
 
 He said: 
 
 "Now, you must promise me you'll never think of 
 that again?"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 239 
 
 At length, she responded : 
 
 " I promise you that if last night repeats itself " 
 
 His face twitched. 
 
 "But I swear that last night will never repeat 
 itself." 
 
 Laying her head against the chair-back, she closed 
 her eyes. 
 
 "What could you swear by? I feel sure that no 
 human sentiments mean anything to you. All the lies 
 you've uttered, all the barbarities you've accom- 
 plished, lead me to expect nothing but fresh treachery 
 and violence." 
 
 "I suppose you're right. Though love and war 
 ... As for my promise, though, you can accept that 
 safely. I'm not a simple brute whatever you 
 think. Since no response is possible, for me any- 
 thing more is quite out of the question." 
 
 She opened her eyes, to stare at him hi amazement. 
 Something like a low laugh escaped her. And she 
 asked him, her voice bitter with contempt: 
 
 " Is it possible that your insanity w r ent so far as to 
 include that hope?" 
 
 Whatever his thoughts were then, he kept them to 
 himself. Looking away, he shrugged his shoulders 
 wearily. 
 
 "I was mistaken, it would seem, in both of 
 us. . . ." 
 
 Was it not an admission of complete defeat? A 
 new hope nickered up in her heart. When she was 
 sure of the steadiness of her voice, she said: 
 
 "And now?"
 
 240 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 He made no reply. She persisted: 
 
 "I suppose you realize that this can't continue in- 
 definitely? That even here such things can't pass 
 unnoticed? That it's all bound to come out?" 
 
 "Naturally. I realize all that. Of course, I've 
 done everything I could to prevent it. I've been as 
 ingenious as the circumstances would permit. But 
 I knew from the first it was a losing fight. Up there, 
 they'll soon put two and two together. They'll come 
 for you post-haste. My friends the carabineers will 
 turn straightway into enemies. We shall have 
 church, state, and army climbing to the rescue. The 
 devil to pay in earnest!" 
 
 This unnatural frankness! What new duplicity lay 
 behind it? 
 
 He went on : 
 
 "I may as well tell you that if I find myself pre- 
 pared in time my impulse will be to stand them off 
 as long as possible. At least that would be a har- 
 monious conclusion to my career." 
 
 He stood up, and for a while contemplated her with 
 his sombre eyes. 
 
 "You see, I can't give you up voluntarily. Un- 
 happily, my nature still finds that intolerable. When 
 I think of those others, who'll come inevitably, and 
 take you from me, I feel a hatred for them that must 
 have its outlet. They're going to despoil me of all 
 that I consider worth while in life. But they sha'n't 
 find that easy. They've got to buy their victory at a 
 heavy price. 
 
 "No doubt it will all end soon enough. Till it
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 241 
 
 does, I demand of life, if not the happiness I hoped 
 for in my folly, at least a shadow of that happiness. 
 For a little while longer I must look at you, and per- 
 haps hear your voice. I must wake in the morning 
 to feel that you're not yet gone. I must go to bed 
 at night hoping to see you at least once again. . . . 
 
 "They say, up there, that a great love is capable 
 of any sacrifice. . . . 
 
 "Well, I believe that; though my interpretation of 
 the idea isn't theirs. Perhaps for who can tell just 
 how this will affect your future I've sacrificed you. 
 If I have, it was with the crazy hope that deep in 
 your heart the same instincts existed as in mine 
 instincts that were bound to free themselves when 
 confronted with so intense a call, that would rise, all 
 flaming, high above the world. . . . That you would 
 come to feel the sacrifice no sacrifice at all. ... 
 
 "But if it turns out that I've sacrificed you, at 
 least I'll have sacrificed myself also. Not in reputa- 
 tion, naturally: for I haven't that to offer up. From 
 the stand-point of those others, and of you, all I 
 could pay over would be my life. I accept that 
 judgment. They shall have it at my price." 
 
 He pondered awhile, then concluded: 
 
 "I know of no other atonement, unfortunately, 
 that I'm capable of making." 
 
 Presently he left her. 
 
 She considered these ideas without surprise. 
 
 The old, reasonable world lay very far away. She 
 saw its ballrooms, full of calm-faced men personi- 
 fying courtesy and self-possession, its tea-gardens
 
 242 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 aflutter with women who lived the thin-blooded ro- 
 mances they fastened upon others, all its gilded cor- 
 ners, its forcing-beds for trivial daring that was 
 blighted by a pervasive cautiousness. 
 
 Here things were different! In this spot, the very 
 rocks and foliage had an aspect intensely savage. 
 Here the elements attained an unnatural ferocity. 
 And here she was isolated with one who seemed the 
 essence of untrammelled violence. What could be 
 impossible? 
 
 She foresaw terrible consequences of some sort 
 impending. And, at this thought, there stirred in her 
 heart, beneath that exquisite veneer with which in- 
 heritance and cultivation had bedecked her, some- 
 thing unprecedented. What was it? 
 
 Did she feel, in the depths of her being, despite her 
 present misery and all the dilemmas of the future, a 
 faint thrill of absolutely primitive exultation? The 
 combat of strong men grappling to the death, and she 
 its object! 
 
 She repulsed this suspicion in horror. And 
 yet . . . 
 
 She watched him descend the hill-path, beyond the 
 eastern corner of the villa, through the trees. The 
 torn foliage hid him. She supposed he had gone 
 down to the village, to set moving some fresh 
 trickery. 
 
 Indeed, that was his intention. But, where the 
 path turned, he came on Annibale climbing up, 
 slightly out of breath, black-browed, tucking away 
 beneath his waistband a sheathed stiletto.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 243 
 
 Master and man stopped short, and eyed each 
 other. Instantly Annibale's face became illegible, 
 with the instinctive caution of his kind on finding 
 themselves surprised in mischief. 
 
 "Who was it?" asked Sebastian. 
 
 Annibale raised his shoulders deprecatingly. 
 
 "Nothing to bother you with, Signuri," he an- 
 swered, gently. "I think now he'll keep away for 
 a while. Eh, and I almost had him! But a root 
 caught my foot. And he jumped from under my 
 hands just like a flea. He moves, that little ani- 
 mal!" 
 
 And Annibale let slip, with a wistful look, one of 
 those vivid imprecations, of mingled indecency and 
 blasphemy, which roll from the lips of the basso 
 populo of Italy without a thought of harm. 
 
 "So, it was Nino with the crooked eyes?" 
 
 The young man appeared amazed. 
 
 "Ah! You've noticed his visits too, Signuri!" 
 
 "You'll find in time, Annibale, that I notice every- 
 thing. But there's one thing I don't quite under- 
 stand. Why should you go so far, without my per- 
 mission, as to offer Nino the salute of the stiletto?" 
 
 Annibale, glancing away, replied evasively: 
 
 "Because he expects it. He knows that tres- 
 passers are forbidden here. If I did less, he wouldn't 
 consider me a man." 
 
 Sebastian shook his head. 
 
 "I can't have my servant knifing people without 
 my orders, stirring up the carabineers, and turning 
 my house into a fort. Later on, you may possibly
 
 244 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 get as much excitement as you want. Till then, re- 
 member that any row you start is going to affect 
 me, too. As for old Ilario, be very careful nowa- 
 days, if you have to drive him back, not to put a 
 bullet through him. And as for Nino, a beating 
 would do at present. Who ever shows bruises to the 
 police? But a dead body loses no time in entering 
 a complaint." 
 
 Annibale reflected. At last, he came to an ex- 
 traordinary resolution. 
 
 "Signuri, I am going to tell you everything, 
 straight from the mouth." 
 
 "That's what I expect, Annibale." 
 
 "Eccu! . . ." 
 
 He peered up the path, before saying: 
 
 "You must know, Signuri, that this Nino isn't one 
 of our own people. He came here on a ship, five 
 years or so ago. It was rumored that he was a fugi- 
 tive, who'd lived the Bad Life in Naples." 
 
 "In other words, that he'd been an apprentice to 
 the Camorra." 
 
 Annibale stared. 
 
 "That's known to you, too?" 
 
 "Goon." 
 
 "Since then, he's been back to Naples once. But 
 about the time that other Signuri commenced to 
 build this villa, he returned. At once, he smelled 
 money up here. He began to crawl round this hill, 
 to spy on that Signuri, and learn his habits. But 
 only in daytime. He was afraid of the Old Ones, 
 for all that he was a foreigner. Once, when the twi-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 245 
 
 light caught him, he thought he saw them. It was 
 I. I'd been trapping a mess of larks, to throw into 
 Fannia's window. A part of my courtship, Signuri! 
 It led me to find out his tricks. 
 
 "Perhaps, after that, he was afraid to go on alone? 
 At any rate, he wrote a letter to Naples. Presently 
 two strangers came little, swaggering men with 
 pinched faces, and trousers big round the bottom, 
 who looked too much at the girls. One night there 
 was an argument about that, in the Grand Cafe of 
 the Sea. Some one passed the fighting- word; but 
 before anybody could move those two had pulled 
 out revolvers. Revolvers! Mahl . . . The carabi- 
 neers gave them till the next boat to go. 
 
 "But meanwhile, the other Signuri, whose villa 
 was scarcely dry, packed up in all haste and ran 
 away to Sicily. He didn't even wait for the steamer. 
 He hired Ilario to take him. 
 
 "In the village, they said he'd seen the Old Ones 
 at last. Eh! You and I, Signuri, know what the 
 Old Ones amount to! It wasn't ghosts that sent 
 him off. It was Nino, and his two little friends of 
 the Camorra. 
 
 "To-day it begins all over again. Nino smells 
 money in the house once more. He crawls up to 
 hide behind the cactus, and learn our habits. Pres- 
 ently, he'll write another letter to Naples. Before 
 that happens, I certainly ought to kill him." 
 
 The young man's handsome, bronzed face turned 
 pensive. 
 
 " As for the body The troublesome part of it is, 
 he has the best of us there. If he kills any of us, he
 
 246 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 can leave us lying. Every one would say it was old 
 Ilario trying to pay off his score. Even if it should 
 be you, Signuri, instead of me. Or the Signura, in- 
 stead of Fannia. The old are all bunglers, you know. 
 When they meddle with such matters, people aren't 
 surprised at their mistakes. 
 
 " On the other hand, if I kill him, I shall have to do 
 something with him afterward. . . . Teh! No mat- 
 ter. One thing at a time. The main point is, to get 
 him before he writes. It was a bad blunder that I 
 made down there, just now. Half a second sooner 
 would have put him into Purgatory. What a pity ! " 
 
 He shrugged a gesture of mournful resignation 
 as Sebastian remarked: 
 
 "Especially since his letter's already written." 
 
 Annibale stepped back. 
 
 "What do you say!" 
 
 "It was written and posted night before last." 
 
 "Who says that!" 
 
 "And it will go by to-morrow's boat. Unless one 
 explained matters to the carabineers?" 
 
 "To the carabineers! Cuspettu! What human 
 being tells his business to the police? Men do for 
 themselves." 
 
 Sebastian nodded. He knew that hi Sicily, and 
 the islands round it, nearly every man of the lower 
 classes was allied with the Mafia an organization 
 not primarily criminal, but sustained, to baffle the 
 authorities, by a population which considers that in- 
 dividual redressal of wrongs is necessary to manhood. 
 In Annibale's words he found merely an expression of 
 this racial idea. He responded:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 247 
 
 "I'm inclined to agree with you." 
 
 "Naturally! For those who can't protect them- 
 selves aren't worthy to live. La giustizia e pri lu 
 fissa the law is for the weak! Not for you and me r 
 Signuri! That sees itself with half an eye." 
 
 "Good man. However, one might possibly cor- 
 rupt the postmaster?" 
 
 "No chance. He is my enemy on account of 
 Fannia, whom he wanted to marry. I am your ser- 
 vant. So you're his enemy, also." 
 
 "Money works wonders." 
 
 "He'd take your money and tell Nino. Nino 
 would only write another letter. No, Signuri: the 
 thing's done, that's all. In a little while we'll have 
 two or three Ninos to dispose of, instead of one. 
 There it is, hi a nutshell." 
 
 "Very well. Then we stand together, do we?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 " In whatever happens? " 
 
 "In whatever happens." 
 
 "A bargain." 
 
 By way of reply, the young man licked his thumb. 
 
 "Why that?" 
 
 "That? In Turrigianti we seal our contracts so." 
 
 "Curious. It happens to be an old Moorish cus- 
 tom." 
 
 "True? No doubt they got it from us, one time 
 or other. ..." 
 
 Sebastian and Annibale returned to the summit. 
 
 From the thickets behind the villa Fannia ap- 
 peared, walking slowly, her dress in ravellings round
 
 248 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 her stout, bare ankles, her shoulders bowed beneath 
 a bundle of fagots. Sebastian looked thoughtfully 
 at that shape which should have earned respite, by 
 this time, from such burden-bearing. When she had 
 entered the house: 
 
 "Annibale, from now on no more heavy work for 
 Fannia." 
 
 The young man's face flushed scarlet. 
 
 "God forgive me! I try to remember. But this 
 morning we've had other things to think of. You're 
 good to remind me, Signuri." 
 
 Sebastian shrugged impatiently. 
 
 "I want this event to be as quickly over with as 
 possible. In warfare, invalids are an encumbrance. 
 Have you any idea when our garrison will be rein- 
 forced?" 
 
 Annibale looked blank: 
 
 " Ma cu sapi who knows? Up here, one loses 
 track of time. But soon, I think." 
 
 He reflected. A proud smile appeared. 
 
 "I shall call him Ercole, because he'll be afraid 
 of nothing." 
 
 "Felicitations. But how do you know that Her- 
 cules was afraid of nothing? " 
 
 "Eh, there's a tradition in Turrigianti to that ef- 
 fect, Signuri. Once upon a time, as I understand, 
 he was one of us. But you've heard of him yourself, 
 it seems?" 
 
 "Something or other. ... I suppose there's no 
 doctor in the village? " 
 
 " Oh, no. But old Maria, of the parish-house, usu-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 249 
 
 ally attends to family affairs. Still, I doubt if she'd 
 come up here." 
 
 "I'll have a word with her next time I'm down. 
 Do you think of anything else that needs doing?" 
 
 Annibale looked embarrassed. 
 
 "If I might ask," he stammered. "A few lengths 
 of woollen stuff? You could take it out of my 
 wages." 
 
 "Clothing?" 
 
 "Not necessary, Signuri. She's been making little 
 shirts out of an old sheet." 
 
 Sebastian gazed at him almost quizzically. 
 
 "No more luxuries, then?" 
 
 "Nothing reasonable." 
 
 "Well, what that's unreasonable?" 
 
 The young man grinned sheepishly. 
 
 "Eh! You know them, Signuri, these women! 
 The silly fancies they get! What don't they think 
 of, and whine for, day in and out! Imagine! Sweet 
 lemons!" 
 
 "Sweet lemons?" 
 
 "Eh! For a month and more she's said, every 
 day, morning, noon, and night, ' If only I could eat a 
 sweet lemon.' Sanguinacciul Children, that's what 
 they are, after all! Sweet lemons!" 
 
 "Where do they grow?" 
 
 "Body of Bacchus, at the other end of the island! 
 On a tree by the hermit's hut! With all the village 
 between! When they pick out something to set 
 their hearts on, they take good care to choose the 
 impossible!"
 
 250 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "I see you're a bit of a philosopher." 
 
 "I'm as God made me, Signuri." 
 
 " We won't argue that. . . . Arrividirci, Annibale. 
 I leave you here in charge." 
 
 Sebastian set out for the northern cliffs. 
 
 He found the path through the brush wellnigh 
 obliterated by the storm. The interlaced branches, 
 the knotted vines and brambles, the great masses of 
 cactus and the agave-clumps that forced their way 
 upward through the tangle, gave him cause for ap- 
 prehensions. These dense coverts encroached too 
 closely on the house. A small army could easily have 
 made an ambush from them. 
 
 Forcing his way through, at length he stood on the 
 northern precipice. Nearly three hundred feet be- 
 low, deep swells, slate-gray under arabesques of foam, 
 were rolling in diagonally, to break against the 
 rock with long, thunderous crashes. 
 
 "The Old Ones must be in exceptionally good 
 voice to-day! ..." 
 
 He took the cliff-path eastward, toward the Doric 
 temple. 
 
 The sun had reached the little glade, to light the 
 flower-crowned roof and lichen-covered walls. But 
 the narrow doorway still yawned shadowy and cold. 
 And when he approached, the sound that was like 
 titanic voices rose to a ghastly clamor as of giants 
 howling, hooting, groaning, in a frenzy of impotence 
 and rage. 
 
 He entered, passed round the stone screen, struck 
 a match, gently tried the pitfall with his foot, then,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 251 
 
 in the dark, stood listening to the uproar. The place 
 fascinated him. Somehow he felt at home hi it. 
 
 But he soon came out, went on along the ledge-like 
 path, and presently reached the platform. Here a 
 tree, uprooted by the tempest, lay across the way. 
 He tilted it on end. It disappeared, and finally 
 plunged into the waves without a sound. 
 
 At last, the path, swerving upward, ended on the 
 ridge above the village. Sebastian looked down, 
 over groves and fields and vegetable-terraces, at that 
 distant squalor. 
 
 From the back windows hung bed-quilts of faded 
 red and yellow. Little dingy figures were moving 
 round the garbage-heaps. The rows of drab houses 
 were interrupted at intervals by vertical black fis- 
 sures the pestilential alley-ways that he had al- 
 ready explored. In and out of these dodged naked 
 children and black pigs. 
 
 ' ' That's it : they live like swine ! Now, suppose the 
 cholera should drop in on Torregiante? " 
 
 The solitary hut, high on the easternmost promon- 
 tory, caught his eye. He continued in that direction. 
 
 It was a tiny hovel, built of bowlders, its crevices 
 stuffed with moss, a slab of driftwood for a lintel, 
 its roof of thatched boughs and prickly-pear leaves 
 weighted down with stones. Close by, some wild 
 olives spread their silvery foliage over marigolds, and 
 the sweet-lemon tree let down its glistening fruit. 
 
 Sebastian approached the doorway. From the 
 gloom issued a man's voice, monotonously praying. 
 
 "Padre?"
 
 252 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 The praying ceased. 
 
 "With your permission, a few of these sweet 
 lemons? " 
 
 Finally, from the shadows, the calm reply: 
 
 "What you wish, Christian Soul." 
 
 "Many thanks." 
 
 "It is not I that you should thank." 
 
 Sebastian felt suddenly malicious. 
 
 "Sweet lemons, you know! A sensation that I'm 
 not acquainted with!" 
 
 A pause. Then the voice, mysteriously tranquil: 
 
 "Try it, my brother. Perhaps it won't be the 
 last. . . ." 
 
 The praying recommenced.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 As Sebastian descended through the woods, he 
 heard a faint, melodious twittering. It was Little 
 Paganni, seated amid his brown goats in the rocky 
 clearing, playing on his flute of donax-reeds. 
 
 The beasts did not sense that stealthy approach 
 sooner than the goatherd. When Sebastian revealed 
 himself, Little Paganni was waiting motionless, flute 
 in lap, sun-bleached curls tossed back, large eyes ex- 
 pectant. Before he recognized the other, his eyes 
 looked gray; immediately after, though his face did 
 not alter in the slightest, they were black. The 
 stranger stood still, to appreciate fully the child's 
 unusual beauty. 
 
 "Good-morning, Pan." 
 
 A slight frown crossed Little Paganni's amber 
 brow. 
 
 "Good-morning, Signuri," he responded, gravely 
 watchful. 
 
 "May one advance?" 
 
 "Accommodate yourself, Signuri." 
 
 "You're not afraid your goats' milk might go sour? 
 Or that your nose might drop off, and your hair turn 
 into caterpillars?" 
 
 "No, Signuri. With the money you gave me I 
 bought this amulet against your evil eye." 
 
 253
 
 254 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 He touched his small bare chest. Among the rags 
 hung a pewter image of a hand, the index and little 
 fingers extended. 
 
 "Then we can talk together, now, without dan- 
 ger?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, you can't harm me now," the child said. 
 "Besides, it makes shivers up and down my back. 
 I like to feel them." 
 
 "I salute you, Little Paganni, because you're 
 brave." 
 
 "So I am." However, he became thoughtful. 
 "All the same, if my father should catch me talking 
 to you, I'd get a beating." 
 
 "And what has Big Paganni got against me, Little 
 Paganni? " 
 
 "What has every one, for that matter? They say 
 you're a magician, and that your wife's a siren. 
 They found you in the sea, standing on the water; 
 and she was singing to the fishes. Her feet were cov- 
 ered with gold, from walking on the bottom, among 
 the wrecks of treasure-ships. And she had the tears 
 of drowned men strung round her neck. Besides,, 
 you live with the Old Ones, and don't die of it. Can 
 men do that?" 
 
 "Annibale and Fannia do." 
 
 "Because they're no longer Christians. They've 
 refused the Sacraments of the Holy Church, and sold 
 themselves to the Devil. That's why Fannia's baby 
 will have horns on his head, and toes like goats'." 
 
 "How do you know so much of Fannia?" 
 
 "I hear my father and Nino arguing about it,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 255 
 
 when I'm in bed, and the others kick me till I wake 
 up. . . ." 
 
 He stopped, and looked away sullenly. Perhaps 
 he remembered his training, the training of all Sicil- 
 ian children of his class, to the effect that nothing 
 which occurs within the family must ever be re- 
 peated. Sebastian made haste to change the sub- 
 ject: 
 
 "Ah. So you have brothers and sisters?" 
 
 The boy regarded Sebastian almost pityingly. 
 
 "Every one has brothers and sisters. Except 
 magicians." 
 
 Sebastian sat down on the turf, and lighted a 
 cigarette. The goats all stood staring at him, their 
 bells silent, their chin-beards lowered, their eyes full 
 of cunning. 
 
 "Tell me about your brothers and sisters, Little 
 Paganni." 
 
 "Eh! What would there be to tell? There's Gi- 
 acinta. She's four years old. Sometimes I bring 
 her up here to sit with me. But I sha'n't do that 
 now: I've no amulet for her to wear. . . . Then 
 there's Felicita, the baby. She has scabs on her 
 head. But last night we took her to kiss Saint 
 Giosue's bones; so the scabs will soon be cured. . . . 
 And Taddio, my brother. But he's in Purgatory. 
 . . . That's all there are, at present." 
 
 Sebastian laughed a new sort of laugh for him. 
 He checked himself, then remarked, carelessly: 
 
 "I have some sweet lemons in my pocket." 
 
 "So I see, Signuri." 
 
 " Would you care for one? "
 
 256 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Little Paganni reflected. 
 
 "If it came from anywhere else, I'd say no. But 
 I don't think you could bewitch the hermit's lemons. 
 Thank you, Signuri. I'll eat it with my dinner." 
 
 He unwrapped a riddled bandanna handkerchief, 
 and in it carefully deposited the lemon, with the 
 hunch of coarse bread, and two shrivelled little 
 tomatoes, and the fragment of a garlic-clove. Se- 
 bastian, with half-shut eyes, nodding in aesthetic ap- 
 proval, watched the boy's lowered face, as the brown, 
 elfin fingers delicately rearranged that frugal store of 
 food. 
 
 "You never go home till evening, Little Paganni?'* 
 
 "How could I? The goats must eat." 
 
 "And whom do they belong to, these seven noble 
 reservoirs? " 
 
 "These Oh, to the Syndic. He's rich. As you 
 can see. But he also owns the Grand Cafe of the 
 Sea." 
 
 "A personage, undoubtedly! At least, when you 
 drive them down, you're free to go and play awhile?" 
 
 "Play! Play is for children, Signuri! When I 
 drive them down, I take them through the village. 
 The women hear the bells, and stick their heads out 
 the windows, and call for me. I send the goats up- 
 stairs, and the women milk them, each as much as 
 she wants, and let down the money in a basket." 
 
 "And sometimes cheat a bit?" 
 
 "Pri Baccu, they don't cheat me, Signuri! I know 
 to a drop how much milk every one of these goats 
 holds." 
 
 " Good. And when they've run dry, what then?"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 257 
 
 "When they've run dry, we go home, and I lock 
 them up in the cafe kitchen." 
 
 "Better still. And how does the Syndic reward 
 you for all that if it's fair to ask?" 
 
 "Eh, he pays my father something, now and 
 then." 
 
 "I fancy, from what you tell me, that your pockets 
 don't jingle much." 
 
 "Not very much, Signuri. . . . Some tune ago, I 
 found a two-soldi piece lying on the beach." 
 
 "No! Well, what dissipations followed?" 
 
 "I traded it with a friend of mine for his dog, that 
 had just died." 
 
 "And when it was all your own, that dog?" 
 
 Into Little Paganni's eyes stole a sweet look, of 
 retrospective happiness. He murmured: 
 
 "I bashed it with rocks till I was tired." 
 
 Sebastian's shoulders shook. He went into a fit of 
 coughing over his cigarette. The goats, with a gam- 
 bolade, dodged away. 
 
 "How old are you, Pan?" 
 
 "Six, Signuri." 
 
 "Oh, I think you must be some thousands of years 
 older than that!" 
 
 The child's eyes dilated. 
 
 "You were certainly here before the village, or 
 Saint Giosue the Admiral, or even these trees. You 
 and your flute and the goats. And you piped the 
 same tunes. But had other listeners. Who hid in 
 the leaves. Little shaggy boys with pointed ears 
 and curly tails. Little transparent girls with long
 
 258 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 wet hair full of water-weeds. Perhaps, even nowa- 
 days, if you played a bit better than usual, they'd 
 still come to listen?" 
 
 Clutching his amulet, Pan sprang to his feet. 
 
 "Ai! For charity! Are you raising the Old 
 Ones?" 
 
 "Not to-day. I'd prefer to tell you stories." 
 
 The boy peered long and earnestly at Sebastian, 
 and at the encircling foliage. He fixed his gaze on 
 the goats, to observe their demeanor. In the end he 
 sat down again, with a deep sigh. His small chest 
 stopped heaving. Gradually his eyes turned blue. 
 After some moments, in a timid tone: 
 
 "What kind of stories?" 
 
 "Whatever you choose." 
 
 Little Paganni revolved this offer in mind, with 
 side-glances at Sebastian. Nothing else could have 
 so attracted and engrossed this child of a race at- 
 tached passionately to the ancient amusement that 
 tale-spinners afford. At last, clenching his fists, as 
 if taking his courage in his hands, he whispered: 
 
 "I'd like to hear about the country of the ma- 
 gicians!" 
 
 The man nodded, leaned forward, elbows on knees, 
 and assumed the age-old pose of the weaver of yarns. 
 With a solemn mien, he began: 
 
 "The country of the magicians lies under the edge 
 of the ocean. ... A terrible place to see! Awful 
 clatterings, and bangings, and roarings ! Everywhere 
 smoke, dust, and flashes! Where the houses plunge 
 under the ground, and spring into the air, full of
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 259 
 
 threads that buzz with voices a thousand kilometers 
 away, and the heat of burning trees that have been 
 turned into stone, and lamps made out of lightning! 
 Where the people leap from cellar to roof in a breath! 
 Or go flying over the fields in a shower of sparks ! Or 
 soar in the air like birds! . . . There you have it, 
 just as it is!" 
 
 Little Paganni shuddered. 
 
 "Holy Virgin forbid that I ever see it!" 
 
 " Right you are," Sebastian assented. " It's much 
 better here." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "But the people there do stranger things than 
 those." 
 
 "Damentt" 
 
 "A positive fact. Why, if you watched them 
 awhile, even when they were only walking and sitting 
 and talking, you'd know they're a crazy lot ! For in- 
 stance, those fellows all worship graven images that 
 they've made themselves." 
 
 "You mean of Our Lady and the Blessed Saints?" 
 
 "Not at all. Of a big booby called My Neigh- 
 bor's Tongue." 
 
 "Then they're heretics!" 
 
 "I believe you. And you couldn't imagine the 
 antics they go through while they worship him! I'll 
 tell you: they stand on their heads! They think it 
 absolutely necessary that he should always see them 
 upside down. Capers, but they're afraid of him, 
 Little Paganni!" 
 
 "But what could he do to them?"
 
 260 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Everything. Because, when they made him, for 
 the finishing touch they clapped all their own brains 
 under his crown. He can make them cry with peo- 
 ple they want to laugh at, and laugh with others 
 whose throats they'd like to cut. He can make them 
 kill a man for something they're tired of, or kiss the 
 hand that gave them a blow. He can make them 
 hang themselves when they'd much rather not, or die 
 of shame when there's nothing to be ashamed of. 
 Or run away and hide forever, if once he's caught 
 them standing right-side up. . . . 
 
 "As for amusement, one of their favorite games is 
 to go stumbling round in crowds, with bandages over 
 their eyes, yelling at everybody who hasn't put one 
 on, 'You're blind!'" 
 
 Little Paganni uttered a startled giggle. That 
 game appealed to the keen sense of irony innate in 
 him. 
 
 "That Gesu may pardon them! They're mad, for 
 sure, those men! And their children, too, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 "Oh, their children soon catch the trick. One 
 might almost say they were born standing on their 
 heads." 
 
 "And the women, of course?" 
 
 "Why, of course?" 
 
 The boy pursed up his cupid's-bow mouth in a 
 highly sophisticated way. 
 
 "In Turrigianti, I know, the women are just as 
 their husbands tell them to be." 
 
 "Now it's you who amaze me, Little Paganni!"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 261 
 
 "But naturally! If they weren't, we men must 
 beat them with clubs and lock them up in the 
 cellar. Then they mind. Why not? The women 
 are made like that." 
 
 "May I ask how long you've been married your- 
 self?" ' 
 
 "I'm not yet married, Signuri. But what of 
 that? I often see One has neighbors in Turrigi- 
 anti eccu! Now and then one sees a man beating 
 his wife. Then, when she's cried, she likes him much 
 more than before. The club stands behind the door 
 I mean to say, that's the custom, Signuri. So one 
 won't have to hunt far for it, when he needs it. He 
 might pick up something else in his hurry say a 
 knife. . . . Old llano's wife, before she died, had a 
 long scar down her cheek so. But she thought a lot 
 more of him after that. . . . That's the way with 
 them, Signuri. At least, in Turrigianti." 
 
 "In Torregiante. . . . But off there, under the 
 edge of the sea, the women, as well as the men, can 
 be curious creatures. . . ." 
 
 The goats, returned to their grazing, moved slowly 
 over the grass, with bells softly jingling. Here and 
 there, white butterflies were hovering over crimson 
 sainfoin. The wind had died away. All the leaves 
 stood still against a brilliant sky. Above the tree- 
 tops, the western headland towered, wrapped in a 
 yellow mist of rain returning on the sunbeams to its 
 source. Midst an immaterial-looking film of green, 
 the roof of the villa trembled indistinctly. It was 
 like an impalpable place, about to dissolve into the
 
 262 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 golden vapors enveloping it a place housing some- 
 thing too rare to be perceived more clearly, or un- 
 derstood, or attained. . . . 
 
 Sebastian stood up, searched his pockets, and 
 tossed the boy three broad coppers. 
 
 "Do you know what these are for?" 
 
 "To spend, perhaps?" 
 
 ".To buy sister Giacinta an amulet. Then you can 
 still bring her up here, sometimes, for company? " 
 
 The small face brightened. 
 
 "But my amulet only cost five soldi." 
 
 "Squander the other one on yourself." 
 
 "So I will! . . ." 
 
 "Little Paganni, would you care to shake hands?" 
 
 The child considered the man, then averted his 
 eyes, and blushed. 
 
 "I'd rather not, Signuri." 
 
 "What! You're beginning to doubt the virtues of 
 your charm?" 
 
 Interlocking his fingers tight, Little Paganni re- 
 peated, nervously: 
 
 "I'd rather not." 
 
 Sebastian turned away. 
 
 "Good-by, Pan." 
 
 "Good-by, Signuri." 
 
 But he had nearly reached the village before he 
 thought again of the house on the headland. . . . 
 
 Up there, in the portico, Ghirlaine was still sitting, 
 her eyes on the western horizon. 
 
 She felt that life was opening out before her once 
 more but in how unfathomable a form ! She would
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 263 
 
 go on living, because she had found the one weapon 
 from which his ruthlessness shrunk back: but be- 
 yond this fact imagination could not extend. Of one 
 thing more, however, she was sure. With rescue 
 would come revenge. And now she thirsted for re- 
 venge no less intensely than for rescue. 
 
 Not only had he plunged her into these horrors, 
 and brought those she loved to anguish the conse- 
 quences were bound to be terrible. What would the 
 world believe and say? In what position would she 
 find herself on her return to it? What was impend- 
 ing for that career of hers, which had developed so 
 triumphantly up to this moment, wherein she had 
 felt such pride and certainty, which had nearly 
 reached its finest hour when this calamity, like a 
 bolt from the blue, struck her down? 
 
 Things could never be the same again. About her 
 innocence would always cling the contamination of 
 this outrage. The wrong he had done her could not 
 be expiated by his death. 
 
 Yet she desired his death, with a fury such as she 
 had never known before. Or, better even than 
 death, his life, as he would have to live it, if he drew 
 off from this adventure with a whole skin. 
 
 For to all who had tolerated him thus far, this 
 would be the last straw ! Where could he show him- 
 self hereafter? He would have to slink in the cor- 
 ners of the earth where the most shameful outcasts 
 of society gather those who have had much, but 
 have lost it all, yet go on existing, in places one never 
 hears of, in communities of unspeakable ignominy
 
 264 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 and unhappiness, always cursing the world that 
 sickened of them, always thinking of the crimes 
 they committed and the price they paid. . . . Yes, 
 she wanted him to live for that! 
 
 The hatred she had felt for him up there, or even 
 in her first hours here, was a little thing compared 
 to the hatred of this hour of virtual victory. It 
 seemed to have needed the gradual influence of these 
 surroundings to bring forth in her heart such fierce 
 emotion. She was not that girl of gracious calmness 
 and dignity who, but a little while before, had passed 
 superbly through the Roman season. She was not 
 the maiden, suddenly appealing, dependent, stirred 
 by a new, strange warmth, who had said "a bientot," 
 in the palm-gallery of the Palazzo Campobasso, to 
 Vincent Pamfort. She was another creature, capa- 
 ble of elemental impulses and deeds. Last night, she 
 could have killed herself. To-day, she could hope 
 that another might not die and cheat her of the 
 thought that he was living on in torment. 
 
 Would Vincent Pamfort have recognized her now? 
 ... As for that, what would Vincent do, when 
 everything was known? 
 
 She told herself that she could count on him for- 
 ever. But deep in her heart she felt a sickening 
 despair. 
 
 It was not that she doubted Vincent's loyalty. 
 His nature was too fine, she protested, to hesitate 
 even at such a trial. But she feared the power of the 
 world about him, that he had always known and 
 lived with, and that she would have to live with, if
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 265 
 
 they still married. She knew the rigid respectabil- 
 ity of the old county aristocracy of England, its in- 
 stinctive revulsion from everything in life that even 
 bordered on extravagance, its uncompromising hos- 
 tility to the crime passionnel and everybody involved 
 in it. They would not see her through Vincent's 
 eyes, those others ! In their minds would always lurk 
 an exultant suspicion, doubly persistent because she 
 was a foreigner. This hour might pass, but as long 
 as she lived men and women would take good care to 
 keep its ghost in evidence. And such a ghost, to 
 haunt that old, illustrious country-seat, and cast its 
 shadow on them year after year, and some day ap- 
 pear before their children! . . . 
 
 An inarticulate cry burst from her. And, some- 
 where in the house, another voice seemed to echo 
 hers, with just such a moan of suffering? 
 
 Springing up, she began to pace the portico. 
 
 " What have I done, that this should come to me, 
 too!" 
 
 For she saw that, however faithful Vincent Pam- 
 fort might be, she could never submit his future to 
 that torture, which he would feel every hour, which 
 those among whom he was bound to live would never 
 for one hour let him forget. 
 
 She knew him so well he was so transparently 
 honest and simple-hearted. If faithfulness and devo- 
 tion to duty were bred in his every fibre, there also 
 existed in him an intense, hereditary convention- 
 ality. If, in the test of the future, his love for her, 
 and his sense of duty, should triumph, that triumph 
 would wreck his life.
 
 266 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "No, no; he must never even be allowed that 
 choice! . . . That's it I must never see him 
 again." 
 
 And, standing still, her eyes on the western sea, 
 she repeated: 
 
 "Whatever happens, I must never see him 
 again. ..." 
 
 Tears running down her cheeks, she stretched out 
 her arms to the west, and murmured, in a voice 
 choked with sobs: 
 
 "Good-by. . . . Good-by. . . ." 
 
 Ah, to go back six months! To find round her all 
 that had irked her so, up there! To breathe the hot 
 perfumed air that had so stifled her! To regain that 
 environment which she had hated, and longed to flee 
 from! 
 
 Yes, she had longed to leave all that behind! And 
 how cruelly had her wish been granted! 
 
 Pacing to and fro, she hugged her shoulders, as if 
 to prevent her heart from breaking. Her ringers tore 
 at the coarse tissue of her dress, the peasant-dress, 
 clothing that exquisite body which till now had never 
 known such fabrics. Surely, this masquerade com- 
 pleted the hideous joke that Fate had played on her. 
 
 "But why! . . ." 
 
 From within the house, a faint moan responded: 
 
 "Madonnina. . . . Madonnina. ..." 
 
 She stood still, listened, went to the door. It was 
 Fannia's voice. 
 
 Ghirlaine entered the house. In the corridor, she 
 found the girl leaning against the wall, half-way to 
 her room, but unable to go on. Through the gloom,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 267 
 
 her face, ordinarily so vivid, appeared a patch of 
 yellowish-white. Her mouth remained open. Her 
 black eyes were wide and blank with panic. 
 
 "Ah, Signura. . . . Ah, Signura. . . ." 
 
 "What has happened? What is it?" 
 
 In the incomprehensible tongue : 
 
 "Sugnumalatu! . . . Misericordia! . . . Nonwg- 
 ghiu morire. ..." 
 
 Suddenly Ghirlaine understood. She held up that 
 sinking form. 
 
 "Come. Lean on me. Courage!" 
 
 "Si, si. Curragiu. ..." 
 
 At last, the one bending beneath the other's 
 weight, they gamed Fannia's room. The peasant 
 sank back upon the pallet spread with goatskins, 
 and twisted her rough hands together. 
 
 "Non vogghiu morire. . . . Non wgghiu morire. ..." 
 
 Ghirlaine understood, if not the words, at least the 
 thought. "I don't want to die!" The universal 
 cry, impelled by terror of the mystery that was ap- 
 proaching. 
 
 And the witness of this anguish felt an immense 
 ignorance, and helplessness, that made her flush with 
 shame. At such a moment, before so vital, so ele- 
 mental a test of worth, to feel herself lacking in all 
 necessary power! 
 
 A sharp call, like the call of a suffering animal to 
 its mate: 
 
 "Annibale!" 
 
 Ghirlaine sped into the corridor, through the door, 
 out to the portico.
 
 268 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Annibale! Annibale!" 
 
 A crashing of bushes on the eastern slope. He 
 breasted the hilltop, running toward her, rifle half 
 raised. 
 
 "Signura!" 
 
 He darted into the house. She followed him. 
 
 In the dim room, he dropped to his knees beside the 
 pallet. There was a volley of exclamations, spas- 
 modic, interrupted by sobs. At the word "Maria," 
 Fannia seized him convulsively by the arms. Her 
 face was distorted by a new terror. 
 
 He struggled to free himself. Evidently, he 
 wanted to rush off somewhere, and fetch some one. 
 But the girl clung to him desperately, while uttering 
 long wails of passionate refusal. 
 
 And in her wide eyes her fear for him eclipsed the 
 other fear. 
 
 "Non fa nienti! Eccu! Sugnu beni, Annibale! 
 Eccu! Sugnu beni! . . . It's nothing. I'm well 
 again. . . ." 
 
 Then the thought of his passing down through 
 the village, among the knives of mortal enemies, 
 achieved a miracle. Her lips quivered. Her body 
 stiffened. And finally her set mouth revealed for 
 him the brave travesty of a smile. 
 
 "It's nothing. See, it's nothing. . . ." 
 
 So those two wild creatures stared into each 
 other's faces, both ready to risk death for love. 
 
 On Ghirlaine this revelation acted as a spur. In 
 her, too, something suitable to the hour, unprece- 
 dented, at once simple and majestic, was born and
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 269 
 
 immediately lived intensely. Abruptly she felt calm 
 throughout, with the thrilling calmness of one who 
 finds herself. She touched Annibale on the shoulder, 
 pointed to Fannia and herself, and motioned him 
 out. 
 
 The young man rose slowly to his feet, and gazed 
 at her. What assurance did he read there, in that 
 beautiful countenance? He left them together, the 
 daughter of the great world and the daughter of 
 the earth. And in Fannia's bare chamber the two 
 joined their strength before that trial. . . . 
 
 The sun was declining, when Ghirlaine came out to 
 the portico, at last, and called to Annibale. Her 
 face was white; the violet-colored marks beneath her 
 eyes were more intense. For she, too, had suffered, 
 in her first contact with such suffering; and the final 
 prostration of the other had found her nearly ready 
 to succumb. When Annibale drew near, at first he 
 could not speak for apprehension. 
 
 Then her voice reassured him. He went in, lifting 
 his large, bare feet cautiously, hat hi hand, as if into a 
 church. 
 
 Fannia seemed not to have moved since he had left 
 her. Her thick black hair was spread out over the 
 pillow. Her arms lay nerveless. Her shape seemed 
 sinking into the pallet, beneath a coverlid of intricate 
 crochet-work the coperta del letto matrimoniale, her 
 wedding counterpane, that she had begun to make 
 when she was twelve years old. At their entrance, 
 her head did not turn, her body did not stir. But 
 very slowly her eyes rolled in their sockets, and
 
 270 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 achieved one of those side-glances for which women's 
 heads are made. Two great drops welled up be- 
 tween her eyelids, and rolled down to her ears. And 
 her voice, so deep and resonant formerly, uttered the 
 faintest sigh: 
 
 "Ecculu. . . . Look a,t him!" 
 
 Then one made out, nestling close under her arm, a 
 little, purplish round face upturned. 
 
 Annibale let fall his hat, and f earsomely drew near. 
 He bent forward gradually, as if ready to spring back. 
 His jaw hung down. For a time, he gaped at that 
 stupendous son of his, and at the wonderful mother. 
 
 In the end, he turned to Ghirlaine. His deep chest 
 swelled out. He wanted to speak, even though she 
 might not understand the words. But he could only 
 raise his shoulders, with his eyes, in one huge, elo- 
 quent shrug. Suddenly, with a thump, he went 
 down on his knees before her, snatched her hands, 
 and covered them with voracious kisses. 
 
 "Ah! Signura!" 
 
 His outburst was volcanic. His frame shook : tears 
 rained down upon her fingers. And there were tears 
 in her eyes, also. 
 
 Out of doors, she walked down through the flowers 
 to the brink, and looked across the sparkling water. 
 
 She was moved by this event. Her intimate con- 
 tact with it had produced in her an unprecedented 
 awe. The fact, and all the crude emotions that had 
 caused it, seemed somehow marvellously ennobled by 
 these pains and tears, by these impulses of sacrifice 
 and gratitude.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 271 
 
 She was glad to have been drawn into that drama, 
 to have played her part in it. Perhaps, she thought, 
 not knowing the vast physical difference between 
 that savage girl indoors and the women of her 
 world, perhaps she was even responsible for the pres- 
 ent existence of two human beings for the future 
 interplay of three affections? 
 
 It was an inspiriting sensation that feeling of in- 
 tense personal significance, for life or death, for grief 
 or happiness! . . . 
 
 The humble appeared to her in a new light, almost 
 as part of herself: and she greeted this idea with a 
 certain half-unconscious pride. Those ragged sweet- 
 hearts, who had chosen their own way despite the 
 opinion of their little world, were changed, at that 
 moment, into figures more heroic than all the heroes 
 she had known. For a flash, she glimpsed then the 
 grandeur of the primitive, the natural, the untram- 
 melled, when moved by mutual love. It was a vast 
 stretch of space, indeed, that opened out before her 
 now a vista as far-reaching as the western sky be- 
 tween the flushing clouds, and no less blinding, to 
 her unaccustomed sight. . . . 
 
 A step sounded behind her on the pavement of the 
 portico. It was Sebastian, returned from the village. 
 
 He stopped to stare at her in surprise. Then he 
 went on, with resonant footfalls, toward the door. 
 
 "Wait!" 
 
 She came toward him, and put her finger to her 
 lips. 
 
 " Go quietly. There are three in there."
 
 272 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 As she stood amid the tangled flowers, outlined 
 against the sun, her figure enveloped as by a nimbus, 
 her hair a flaming aureole, she looked like a young 
 Sibyl, whose grave eyes contain unfathomable se- 
 crets.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 FOR Torregiante, steam-ship day was always a sort 
 oifesta. The fishermen stayed home. The farmers 
 forbore to work their vegetable-patches. Round 
 noon, all the village gathered at the shore. 
 
 The esplanade, sloping down gently to the beach, 
 was paved with broad blocks of stone. The crevices 
 were wedged at intervals with iron rings, to which the 
 sail-boats, when they had been hauled up on rollers, 
 could be lashed fast. To-day, the water-front was 
 all encumbered with these rough craft, short-masted, 
 hog-backed, reeking with tar and fish. 
 
 Among the bulging hulls of faded blue, booths had 
 sprung up at random. Their miserable wares were 
 screened from the fierce sun by scraps of sail-cloth. 
 Here and there, over a brazier, a ragamuffin fried 
 mysterious chunks of offal dipped in batter, or, be- 
 tween ear-splitting howls, turned out waffles of flour- 
 and-water paste strewn sparingly with cardamon 
 seeds. 
 
 On the black sand glistening with mica, thin-legged 
 boys were rolling up the dark-brown nets. The 
 girls, their arms entwined, interrupted this business 
 mischievously, admired the pinchbeck ornaments ex- 
 posed for sale, or blushed as young men slipped by 
 them with a whisper. Rugged solemn fellows, with 
 bundles of live chickens slung over their shoulders 
 
 273
 
 274 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 upside down, gathered to lose their pennies and their 
 voices at the ancient game of "flash the fingers." 
 The mothers, their latest brats dragging down their 
 hair, screamed threats at the five-year-olds, who 
 pelted one another with fish-heads and tumbled into 
 puddles. 
 
 But the village elders held themselves aloof from 
 all this stridence. With an air of supreme disillu- 
 sionment, they sat before the Grand Cafe of the Sea, 
 round the tunnel-like doorways surmounted by 
 gaudy prints of the Madonna, beneath the loggias 
 garnished with bunches of dry onions, peppers, and 
 tomatoes. For their part, they had seen the ship 
 come in too many years to get excited but not often 
 enough to go about their business when it was 
 expected. 
 
 Toward one o'clock, considerably behind-time as 
 usual, the steam-boat crept round the western head- 
 land, trailing a dun-colored plume of smoke. 
 
 All eyes turned toward the little vessel, grimy, 
 snub-nosed, apparently almost overbalanced by its 
 frowsy superstructure, rolling from side to side even 
 in that calm sea. Rowing-boats put out from shore. 
 A hundred yards off the beach, a bell jingled: the 
 steamer showed its broadside and stood still. Into 
 a rowing-boat dropped a white-and-red striped mail- 
 bag. Some men scrambled down the ladder. On 
 the deck, a few lads in jerseys were tugging at crates 
 and boxes. 
 
 Sebastian, watching at the water's edge, found the 
 Marshal of carabineers beside him.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 275 
 
 "No doubt there are letters for your Excellency in 
 that bag!" 
 
 "So I hope. And other things in those boxes." 
 
 "Then your Excellency is really planning to stay 
 on?" 
 
 "For a while. It's charming, the Place-Up- 
 There." 
 
 "And the Signora?" 
 
 "Improving famously." 
 
 ' ' Good news ! ' ' The Maresciallo's face, which had 
 been slightly wistful while turned toward the ship, 
 beamed with enthusiasm. 
 
 "Pray recommend me to her Excellency, Signore. 
 Though no doubt an angel saving your Excellency's 
 presence would have just as much use as she for the 
 services of a carabineer!" 
 
 "Who knows?" Sebastian responded, calmly. 
 "At any rate, it will please her to give you a glass of 
 wine some day, when you feel like climbing to our 
 perch." 
 
 "A thousand thanks!" But the soldier added, 
 laughing: "You'll have to warn Annibale that it's a 
 peaceful visit." 
 
 "He'll be glad to see even you. He's dying to ex- 
 hibit his baby." 
 
 "What! The baby's arrived? Magari! Time 
 does pass, then, in Torregiante, after all!" 
 
 The priest joined them, frail and pallid in his 
 greenish cassock, his kindly eyes shaded by his un- 
 kempt beaver hat, his long, thin mouth trembling in 
 a smile.
 
 276 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Yes," he admitted, glancing out at the steamer, 
 " I, also. Even we veterans, between our tasks, like 
 to contemplate the links that bind us to the past. 
 But that link, there, binds some to the future also 
 eh, Signer Maresciallo?" 
 
 "A fact, Don Vigilio," the soldier cried, heartily. 
 "My men and I will be relieved in the Autumn." 
 
 "And you, Padre?" asked Sebastian. 
 
 Don Vigilio shrugged, and smiled more gently. 
 
 "If I steal such moments as these, at least that 
 doesn't mean I'm homesick. In this life each has 
 his special work to do. Once on a time, I thought 
 mine lay out there. But my superiors, nearer the 
 source of inspiration than I, knew better. Now I 
 realize that it lies here." 
 
 He nodded several times. 
 
 "Torregiante, a little world in itself. Why, I 
 have much more than I deserve, of honorable re- 
 sponsibility! " 
 
 He spoke pure Italian, with that inimitable accent 
 which is only obtained by long residence in Rome. 
 And Sebastian, looking at that meek, worn old face, 
 reflected: "Here's another, it seems, who might have 
 his little tale to tell?" 
 
 But close at hand a voice roared out: 
 
 "If my wine's not aboard, Blood of Bacchus, but 
 I'll have somebody's skin!" 
 
 It was a fat, bow-legged, sanguinary fellow of mid- 
 dle age, with protruding eyes, and the mustache of a 
 walrus. He wore no collar. His big paunch was 
 covered with a stained plaid waistcoat of moth-eaten
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 277 
 
 plush. His sausage-like fingers were congested by 
 cheap rings. Evidently, the sound of his voice in 
 anger gave him a certain pleasure. For, without 
 preamble, he bellowed at the trio: 
 
 " I ask you, how is a man to run a wine-shop with- 
 out wine? But do they consider that, those lazy 
 devils at Trapani? Dirty foreigners! Accidents to 
 them! May an apoplexy strike them! May the 
 cholera take them off! May they die in a prison!" 
 
 He whirled round on some deck-hands from the 
 steamer, who had landed near by. 
 
 "Tell them that next time I go to Trapani the 
 way I'll yell in their office will shake the plaster off 
 the walls!" 
 
 It was the Syndic. 
 
 When he had almost stopped snorting, Don Vigilio 
 introduced Sebastian. The two shook hands, and 
 crossed glances. Abruptly, the Syndic lost his 
 bluster, raised his shoulders with a grin, and uttered, 
 in a confidential, somewhat apologetic tone: 
 
 "Eh, Signuri! As you know, one has to bellow, 
 and promise death and destruction, to get anything 
 in this world!" 
 
 "I perceive you have the secret of authority in 
 your pocket." 
 
 "dial It's the only way to manage folks to 
 bully them." 
 
 "It would be folly to argue with a man whose 
 theories have brought him to the pinnacle of success." 
 
 The Syndic's visage was dangerously congested 
 by a blush of pride. But he felt called upon to 
 protest :
 
 278 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Oh, Signuri! Turrigianti a small spot, after 
 all! I know; for I, too, have travelled. To Tra- 
 pani, to Palermo, even to Messina!" 
 
 "Caesar would rather have been first in a village 
 than second at Rome." 
 
 "Please?" the Syndic requested, blankly. 
 
 A new voice remarked, with eager obsequiousness : 
 
 "Our brave Syndic loses little by not recalling, 
 him. The object of education I speak now of such 
 of its ramifications .as history, art, letters, et cetera 
 is to teach us what to forget." 
 
 Sebastian stared at the speaker. He saw a young 
 man of excessive thinness, with a cadaverous face at 
 once puerile, vain, and untrustworthy. This indi- 
 vidual wore a purplish, threadbare suit, of the cut 
 affected by cheap Palermo dandies. His cravat of 
 green satin, considerably soiled and frayed, held an 
 imitation emerald. With his thin mustache, pointed 
 nose, and beady eyes, he looked like a starving rat. 
 
 "A nice way," protested Don Vigilio, good-nat- 
 uredly, "for our school-master to talk!" 
 
 The new-comer made a gesture with his cigarette, 
 which, as it was probably the only one he had, was 
 not afire, but worn, so to speak, merely to give him 
 an additional touch of elegance. 
 
 "But why not? We live in houses that were built 
 too long ago to suit us, that we can't breathe in, that 
 cramp our lives. For we're a different sort, at last, 
 we of this age! So let's knock down the rubbish, 
 and forget it! Let's build our house on fresh foun- 
 dations!" 
 
 "My son," said the old priest, almost sternly,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 279 
 
 "there is only one safe foundation, and it endures 
 forever." 
 
 The young man stopped looking at Sebastian as if 
 anxious for approval. With the extreme politeness 
 of veiled impudence, he answered: 
 
 "Ah, Padre, I'm of the Government; you're the 
 Church: so we might set the Vatican and the Quirinal 
 an example of harmony! But pardon me: I expect a 
 book by this steamer." 
 
 "And I some letters," said Sebastian, waking from 
 his amusement. 
 
 "Nothing for you, Excellency," the school-master 
 informed him, promptly. "I've just glanced over 
 the mail." 
 
 "Nor boxes, either," volunteered the Marshal, re- 
 turning from a look at the goods piled upon the 
 sand. 
 
 "Nothing? Another fortnight, then. . . ." 
 
 But Sebastian took the path to the villa very 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 It was not like Disnisius to be remiss. Suppose the 
 whole affair was known already, and he had been 
 forced to slip away in haste? But in that case he 
 would surely have sent a warning? Or come to 
 stand by his master? 
 
 Two weeks more of suspense. And then? . . . 
 
 At the foot of the hill, Sebastian met Nino de- 
 scending. 
 
 The youth halted, checked an involuntary move- 
 ment, and stood aside. Sebastian stopped to look 
 down into that crooked face.
 
 280 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Good-day, Nino." 
 
 "Good-day, Signuri," the ex-apprentice to the 
 Camorra answered, in stifled voice. 
 
 "Been visiting Annibale?" 
 
 " Annibale and I don't visit. I've been hunting in 
 the woods for medicine for vermouth and mastic. 
 But I found none." 
 
 "That's unfortunate, Nino. For you look far 
 from well." 
 
 The youth raised his eyes quickly, then dropped 
 them. His nostrils expanded and turned pale. 
 
 "You look far from well," Sebastian repeated, 
 softly. "You look to me as if you were on the verge 
 of falling dangerously ill. ... God keep you well, 
 Nino." 
 
 He turned his back on the other, and mounted to 
 the summit. 
 
 Ghirlaine was sitting in the portico, as always, 
 facing the western sea. He went to her, and said: 
 
 "The things I ordered for you didn't come." 
 
 She looked at him with a slow, strange smile, cold, 
 subtly terrible, like the smile of a Medusa. 
 
 "It hardly matters, I think," she answered, in a 
 way to make him feel the triviality of his words. 
 And he realized, with a shock, that she was human 
 enough, after all, for certain fierce emotions. She 
 was counting the days until his punishment. . . . 
 
 But his punishment had begun already. 
 
 Through the silence of that hilltop, she moved like 
 the phantom of something inexpressibly remote. 
 Every morning this feeling came to him, as he
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 281 
 
 watched her drifting among the flowers of the ter- 
 race. She stooped, with a flowing grace that made 
 him catch his breath, to let the roses brush her cheek, 
 as if listening to messages that the wind had brought 
 them from afar. She touched the asphodels with her 
 long, curving fingers in caresses full of secret mean- 
 ing. Or, standing erect, her exquisite, tall form out- 
 lined against the sky, she gazed across the water, for 
 a long time motionless, wrapped in thoughts that he 
 could never share or understand. Then, at last, she 
 turned, with the face of one back from a long journey, 
 and, going slowly to the villa, passed him as if he 
 were not there. 
 
 He thought, "She is thinking of him." And he 
 fell to wondering whether she was, really, as she had 
 always shown herself to him a creature uninflam- 
 mable, or, at least, as yet without the premonitory 
 warmth that leads to passion. Her hours with the 
 other, what growing fervors, what beginnings of self- 
 abandonment, had they contained? He pictured 
 such scenes, in anguish, yet driven to contemplate 
 them despite all efforts of his will. The other! 
 Though he was far away, Sebastian felt that some- 
 how he was here with her, that the remembrance of 
 her hours with him supported her, that it was the 
 thought and hope of him which kept her in this 
 miraculous calmness. . . . 
 
 Her face had altered. It had grown more ethereal 
 in suffering, even rarer and purer than before. At 
 times she seemed wellnigh a supernatural thing, a 
 half-impalpable personification of spiritual beauty.
 
 282 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Bereft of those intricate and fashionable adornments, 
 that had added to her charms, up there, the attrac- 
 tion of a certain worldliness, she appeared marvel- 
 lously simplified, and in consequence even more re- 
 mote from him. He felt like one who has entrapped 
 a being of another world, only to see her dissolve into 
 thin air before his eyes. But because no man on 
 earth can find courage to give up his most precious 
 ideal, Sebastian could not, even now, bring himself 
 to think of giving up this living ideal so poignantly 
 enriched, this phantasm of unattainable felicity. . . . 
 
 Yet, at the other's touch, she had not so dis- 
 solved ! 
 
 He pondered his rival's personality. He could 
 imagine its elements. And he began to glimpse, now, 
 a fact that he, for all his long scrutiny of human nat- 
 ure, had not had occasion to perceive before that 
 between man and woman there can be no union of 
 the heart till one has nearly attained the spiritual 
 level of the other. 
 
 / So, for the first time in his career, he commenced 
 to understand what retribution Life may visit on 
 \ long, persistent enmity to its intentions. . . . 
 
 Sometimes, while he was revolving such ideas in his 
 mind, she came out on the portico with Fannia's baby 
 in her arms. The little figure, strapped to a board, 
 wrapped tight in swaddling-clothes, was sheltered by 
 her white arms against her perfect breast. Then, if 
 she did not think of him, suddenly all her remoteness 
 vanished. She became a concrete being, intensely 
 human. Holding the tiny, fat head against her
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 283 
 
 shoulder, she whispered till the vague eyes rolled 
 round to fix themselves on hers. Then she put her 
 face forward, with a sort of thirsty eagerness, smiled 
 with a shiver, and pressed her lips against the 
 dimpled neck. But if she saw Sebastian watching, 
 her face changed instantly. The warmth left her. 
 Her personality seemed to shred away, and leave the 
 phantom. She turned, and carried the baby in to 
 Fannia. 
 
 Soon the peasant-girl sat knitting in the sunshine 
 all day long. Now and then, she let fall the needles, 
 while her gaze followed Ghirlaine hi dumb adoration. 
 Often they were together among the flowers, beneath 
 the lemon-tree laden with its pale fruit. At inter- 
 vals, softly they exchanged words and sentences, 
 which Ghirlaine repeated many times, with improv- 
 ing accent. 
 
 When Fannia nursed her baby, the other gazed 
 raptly at the little eager mouth, the helpless hands 
 always closing and unclosing. With an impulsive 
 movement, she touched the baby's cheek. Fannia 
 laughed, a deep-chested laugh of frank enjoyment 
 and returning health. Then they were both silent, 
 watching the small glutton, while the bees buzzed 
 round them, and blue butterflies hovered in a cloud 
 against the bluer sky. 
 
 Annibale brought in fagots, fetched the water { 
 cooked the food. He tended his vegetable-patch, 
 gathered wild asparagus and Arabian rose-artichokes, 
 picked a mess of snails from the grape-vines, trapped 
 birds, produced every day some edible novelty.
 
 284 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Often he came home with a mullet, a crayfish or two, 
 a hatful of sea-urchins, or a young octopus which he 
 stewed in oil, garlic, and tomatoes. It turned out 
 that near the caves he had some cane lobster-pots, 
 and nets of agave-fibre though that any one should 
 be able to climb up and down the northern cliffs 
 seemed incredible. Annibale did so, however, with- 
 out any thought of danger. And when his tasks 
 were finished, he had time to prowl by the hour, over 
 the hillside, on his own affairs. 
 
 But every evening, he sat on the edge of the porch, 
 and talked to Sebastian about his offspring. 
 
 "But truly, Signuri, he knows me perfectly! 
 Whenever I stand over him, he blows a little bubble. 
 Which he does for nobody else! Eccu! It's a sign 
 between us. We're comrades already. Soon I shall 
 begin to teach him things." 
 
 "For instance," said Sebastian, his mind elsewhere. 
 
 "To catch fish and birds, to climb the rocks, not to 
 step on vipers, to open a knife with one hand, to de- 
 ceive people who ask questions, to mistrust the law. 
 Eh, he shall grow up to be a man, my little Ercole!" 
 
 Across the terrace, Ghirlaine and Fannia had their 
 heads together over the object of these plans. He 
 was bawling his best. 
 
 Between howls, the words, in Ghirlaine's ever-bet- 
 ter Sicilian: 
 
 " U pozzu pigghiari may I take him?" 
 
 "Please, Signura." 
 
 Ghirlaine gathered the baby quickly to her bosom. 
 In a moment he stopped crying.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 285 
 
 "Ah," exclaimed Annibale, softly, "she's an angel 
 of this world, our Signura! . . . What a pity. ..." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Nothing, Signuri." 
 
 He sighed, got up, and took the coil of fibre rope 
 which he always seemed to have at hand, of late. 
 
 "What are you doing with those nooses, Anni- 
 bale?" 
 
 "These, Signuri? But I hardly know myself. 
 Yet the other day it seemed to me that I saw sav- 
 ing your presence a pig from the village rooting 
 in the groves. So I thought, pri Baccu, if he's as 
 foolish as that, that pig, why not profit by it? " 
 
 He went down the hillside. His bare feet made no 
 sound. . . . 
 
 One perfect day succeeded another. The sky re- 
 sembled deep-blue satin; the sea flashed like a noble 
 jewel. Toward evening, the same gorgeous trans- 
 formation of the world. Then the purple twilight, 
 thick with golden stars. 
 
 Hot weather was approaching. All day the lo- 
 custs sang in the pomegranate trees. Far below, on 
 the slope behind the village, the men were working 
 naked in their vegetable-patches. And the boatmen, 
 slipping out at nightfall in their feluccas, sent over 
 the water clear, wailing calls, that rose to the head- 
 land through the stillness. 
 
 But on that hilltop, despite the peaceful beauty of 
 every hour, despite the continual recurrence of trivial 
 words and simple occupations, they lived, and three 
 of them knew they lived, on the brink of a volcano.
 
 286 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 One morning, unexpectedly, there came a premoni- 
 tory tremor. 
 
 The Maresciallo appeared, with two of his cara- 
 bineers. Before any one heard or saw them, they 
 were on the terrace. They wore their fatigue-dress 
 short coats, flat caps, ankle-boots, and cartridge- 
 boxes. But the climb had not disarranged the natti- 
 ness of their uniforms, or ruffled their habitual seren- 
 ity. Sebastian noticed, however, that in addition to 
 their revolvers, all carried carbines. 
 
 The Marshal smiled amiably. 
 
 "Where's Annibale, Signore?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know." 
 
 "But not far away, I fancy? I have some ques- 
 tions to ask him. If you could break the news to 
 him, so that he'd not get excited and lose his head, 
 you'd be doing him a favor." 
 
 And the soldier showed all his teeth, beneath his 
 large, blond mustache, in a sympathetic way. 
 
 At that moment, Annibale came round the corner 
 of the house, and halted as if turned to stone. 
 
 The Maresciallo at once advanced on him jauntily. 
 The two other carabineers stepped quickly to one 
 side, so as to keep both of Annibale's hands in view. 
 But poor Annibale's expression of chagrin pro- 
 claimed, with sufficient frankness, that they had 
 caught him unprepared. Then his face became al- 
 most half-witted in its blankness. He looked at the 
 Maresciallo as if he had never seen a carabineer 
 before. 
 
 "Annibale, where is Nino?"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 287 
 
 "Nino!" 
 
 " Little Nino, with the crooked eyes." 
 
 " Where is he, you ask me?" 
 
 "That's what I ask you, Annibale." 
 
 "Nino? . . ." 
 
 "So I said." 
 
 "Eh. . . . Is it a new joke, then, down there?" 
 
 "I'm not likely to climb up here, Annibale, just 
 for a joke." 
 
 The other's face assumed a childish grin. 
 
 "Daweru? But so it would appear, all the same, 
 if you make the climb to ask me where is Nino!" 
 
 "He's vanished from the village." 
 
 "So?" 
 
 "These three days." 
 
 "Capers! He goes and comes, does that fellow! 
 Perhaps he's off to Naples again." 
 
 "By swimming, I suppose?" 
 
 "Who knows that? Or, maybe, when he was fish- 
 ing with old Ilario, at night, he fell overboard? For 
 sometimes old Ilario, as you must know, is rather 
 hasty. . . . Or, if he had a little difference with 
 some one, perhaps they rowed out and fought the 
 duel of oars? But to ask me! Blood-pudding! 
 News isn't made up here, Signur Maresciallu!" 
 
 The soldier, approaching his face close to Anni- 
 bale's, retorted: 
 
 "All the same, you know what's become of him." 
 
 Annibale glanced at Sebastian, and shrugged his 
 shoulders helplessly. 
 
 "What can one say? It's a plot to arrest me, so
 
 288 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 that old Ilario can stab me as they lead me through 
 the village handcuffed." 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Annibale," remarked the Mar- 
 shal. "Or pretend to take me for one." 
 
 "Then you're not going to arrest me?" 
 
 "Not yet. But when I find him " 
 
 Annibale nodded solemnly. 
 
 "Find him, Signur Maresciallu, by all means. 
 And arrest me or not, as you choose. What's Nino 
 to me? Now, if it had been old Ilario!" 
 
 The Marshal turned to Sebastian. 
 
 "Always so. The last one of them is a maffioso! 
 Still, we must make the inquiry. Now and then they 
 give themselves away. Not often!" 
 
 "But surely " 
 
 The soldier shook his head. While he still smiled 
 with perfect amiability, his frank friendliness of 
 other days had vanished. He would only say: 
 
 "We shall see, Signore. A rivederla." 
 
 "Some wine, at least?" 
 
 "Many thanks, not to-day. My respects to the 
 Signora. Arrividirchi, Annibale." 
 
 " Arrividirchi, Signur Maresciallu" 
 
 The carabineers departed. . . . 
 
 That evening, while Annibale was sitting on the 
 edge of the porch, rocking his son in his arms, Se- 
 bastian asked him quietly: 
 
 "My friend, how did you dispose of Nino?" 
 
 The young man stopped his lullaby. He peered at 
 Sebastian askance. Then, at last, his handsome face 
 was twisted into a smile of almost boyish malicious-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 289 
 
 ness. And, as he swayed the baby gently to and fro, 
 he murmured: 
 
 " Signuri, I bestowed him on the Old Ones. ..." 
 
 No more was said. . . . And Sebastian did not see 
 the carabineers again till the next steam-boat day. 
 
 On that occasion, when he reached the harbor the 
 ship, punctual for once, had already made its visit. 
 But on the esplanade, half the village was clustered 
 round a curious-looking stranger a swarthy, bony 
 creature, not tall but with enormous shoulders, clad 
 in a red flannel undershirt and green cotton drawers 
 ornamented with tattered galloons in yellow worsted. 
 Posturing on a strip of carpet, he rattled a handful 
 of metal rings, and shouted, while his eyes rolled 
 idiotically: 
 
 "Now they're separate! Now I'll make them sin- 
 gle! One! Two! Two and a half " 
 
 His rolling eyes rested on Sebastian's face, then 
 jumped to another. 
 
 "Three! Eccot" 
 
 The rings jangled into a chain. The mountebank, 
 with a whoop, set a peacock's feather on his nose, and 
 ran round the circle, bawling: 
 
 "Impossible! Impossible! Impossible!" 
 
 He spoke with the Neapolitan accent. 
 
 At Sebastian's elbow popped up a broken-nosed 
 fellow with the wreck of a guitar slung over his back. 
 Thrusting forward a battered metal tray, he whined : 
 
 "Have charity on the poor jugglers!" 
 
 Sebastian tossed some coppers on the tray, ap- 
 praised the two vagabonds at a glance, and went to
 
 2 QO THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 the water-front. He had no doubt that this was the 
 result of Nino's letter. 
 
 "Rather clever, their make-up! They evidently 
 have brains. Or the ones who sent them have." 
 
 On the sand, the Marshal saluted him with careful 
 courtesy. 
 
 "Two trunks for you, Signore, in the Dogana." 
 
 "Good. And letters?" 
 
 "So I believe." 
 
 The carabineer touched his cocked hat again, and 
 turned away. Sebastian reflected: 
 
 "What's the matter with him? It can hardly be 
 his suspicion of Annibale?" 
 
 As he glanced toward the Grand Cafe of the Sea, 
 to meet the stony stares of old Ilario, Big Paganni, 
 and half a dozen more, he felt that no one was left 
 in Torregiante village not secretly hostile to him. 
 Save perhaps the priest? 
 
 In the Dogana, two steamer-trunks were waiting 
 for him, corded and sealed. He bargained to have 
 them carried half-way up the hill, where Annibale 
 could find them. Then he went to the post-office. 
 
 A dirty young fellow, his mustache coquettishly 
 curled, a rose stuck over his ear, admitted resentfully 
 that there were letters. 
 
 Two were from Tunis. The first was written os- 
 tensibly by the Russian consular agent there. The 
 second, well sealed, contained money, the trunk-keys, 
 and Disnisius' note. Sebastian scanned it rapidly: 
 
 Please excuse delays. Certain matters have made a great stir. 
 Even when I reached Naples, there has been some one interested
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 291 
 
 of me, but not, I think, in regular authority. However so, I man- 
 aged to show the heels: but time was taken thus. . . . Rest as- 
 sured of yr Ex's scarf-pins. I go now to Balikisri, because yr 
 Ex orders. But I was preferring to be with yr Ex in this: 
 moment. . . . 
 
 11 Stupid ass! He'd better prefer to save his skin," 
 Sebastian muttered, with a feeling of half -contemptu- 
 ous affection. 
 
 But he realized that he held another letter in 
 his hand. It was addressed, like the rest, to "Sa- 
 ranin Schapposchnikoff." But it was postmarked 
 "Roma!" 
 
 He ripped it open. The signature! "Ernesto 
 Sangallo! . . ." 
 
 The words danced before his eyes. His surround- 
 ings turned black. From out of doors, the screech of 
 the mountebank reached him faintly: 
 
 "Impossible! Impossible! Impossible! ..." 
 
 Finally, he made out: 
 
 My dear friend, one must really envy you the placidity of your 
 retreat, so far from the social vortex, always revolving in its wild 
 and futile repetitions. Though perhaps I should not say that. 
 Because nothing, after all, is really futile. 
 
 Yes, the rigadoon goes on, though some of the dancers are miss- 
 ing. Princess Betty is in Baden-Baden. Don Livio is in Lon- 
 don. There has been another plague of scurrilous anonymous 
 letters in Rome. Tito has let his regiment go hang, and I under- 
 stand he is travelling in Austria. I came back from Piedmont 
 just too late to see him. I am sorry for that. However, things 
 work out. . . . 
 
 Andreas Romanovitch you would hardly know, perhaps. 
 Though to me he does not seem changed. But he never saw the 
 Innocenti again! Now she is singing in Paris. Hector de
 
 292 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Chaumont is there, I think, on leave. But Mme. Berthe is going 
 to spend the summer with little Donna Dora at the Brazzazza 
 stronghold in Umbria. Andreas has constituted himself their 
 cavaliere servente. So, in analysis, there is good with less good, 
 in Rome as in every fermentation. . . . 
 
 The Pincio and the Piazza Colonna are deserts. One sees 
 nobody except the sort of people who keep our country alive. . . . 
 
 Sebastian sped through the remainder with pound- 
 ing heart. Gossip! A jest or two! Even a grace- 
 ful compliment! And nothing else! 
 
 No mention of Ghirlaine Bellamy. 
 
 Sangallo knew! Yet, in this notice that the sword 
 was actually falling, the man could prattle, meander, 
 touch every point except the vital one ! 
 
 " So, even in him the old, ferocious playfulness of 
 the arena-haunters crops out!" 
 
 What if they had arrived already, the rescuers? 
 
 He regained the villa in a daze. To Annibale: 
 
 "No visitors?" 
 
 "Visitors, Signuri!" 
 
 Fannia came out into the portico, the baby in her 
 arms. Sebastian lowered his voice: 
 
 "My baggage is here. We have two rifles now. 
 Load your own." 
 
 "It's always loaded, Signuri." 
 
 "No more people must catch us sitting round with 
 empty hands." 
 
 "Ah. Nino's friends have arrived? " 
 
 "Nino's friends? Oh, yes. They've arrived." 
 
 He had forgotten them. 
 
 "We shall have others also, Annibale."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 293 
 
 "The carabineers?" 
 
 "Them, too, without a doubt." 
 
 The young man answered steadily, but with a 
 leaping eye: 
 
 "Very well, Signuri. We shall know how to re- 
 ceive as many and various as like to come, so the 
 Madonna gives us wit." 
 
 He walked to the house, pinched his baby's cheek, 
 and went in for his rifle.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE trunks were brought up next morning. Se- 
 bastian Maure's first care was to make sure of the 
 Mauser rifle and the cartridges. His next was to 
 assemble the things Disnisius had sent for Ghirlaine's 
 use. 
 
 The rascal had not done badly! Indeed, Sebas- 
 tian surmised that feminine advice, in Tunis or else- 
 where, was responsible for his choice. 
 
 There were several dresses, of duck, blue serge, and 
 linen, in excellent taste. There was even a simple 
 evening-gown of rose-pink chiffon. Sebastian dug 
 out a broad-brimmed straw hat trimmed with wheat 
 and poppies, shoes of buckskin and tan, a green par- 
 asol, a quantity of white-silk stockings and lingerie. 
 He found Paris scents and soaps, creams, powders, 
 and dentifrice, nail-scissors and files, combs, brushes, 
 hair-pins of yellow amber. 
 
 And mingled with all those dainty objects were 
 boxes of Havana cigars, Turkish cigarettes in tins, a 
 pair of binoculars, bottles of Irish whiskey, a tiffin- 
 basket, a writing-case, potted truffles and caviare, 
 the latest French novels. Grinning, despite himself, 
 at that mixture of furbelows, refreshments, and am- 
 munition, he thought: 
 
 "Devil take the fellow ! He must have been unde- 
 cided whether to pack for a picnic or a battle." 
 
 294
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 295 
 
 But his smile faded. To Fannia, who was gaping 
 in through the window, he said, in a lifeless voice: 
 
 "Carry all this woman's stuff to the Signura. 
 And to-night, when she's asleep, do away with those 
 clothes she's been wearing. Throw them into the 
 sea." 
 
 With his rifle and the binoculars he went down the 
 hillside to relieve Annibale. 
 
 They had chosen, on the slope, a screen of agaves 
 from which to watch the open ground about the 
 village. In daytime, no one could ascend toward the 
 headland, or make for the northern heights, without 
 their perceiving him. But at night the problem grew 
 complex. Then the sentinel had to lie on the roof, 
 and scan the clearing about the house by starlight. 
 At dawn, the adjacent thickets would have to be 
 searched at the point of a gun. 
 
 If the priest came up, he was to advance in peace. 
 The carabineers were to be received according to the 
 hour, and their demeanor on setting out. Children, 
 the favorite decoys in Sicilian warfare, were to pass 
 to the top, their hails unanswered. If any others ap- 
 peared, the plan was to shoot first and question 
 afterward. 
 
 All the windows were covered, their shutters 
 pierced by loop-holes. The doors were fitted with 
 bars. The larder was stocked. The villa had be- 
 come a fort. 
 
 Ghirlaine realized that a crisis was present. She 
 had seen the steam-boat come in. She had thought 
 of her post-card, and wondered if Sangallo might not
 
 296 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 already be in Torregiante. But when Fannia began 
 to bring into her room armfuls of new dresses, she 
 abandoned this hope. 
 
 Then what had happened? 
 
 Fannia could tell her, or preferred to tell her, noth- 
 ing. The peasant's handsome face was set in stony 
 misery. To the questions that Ghirlaine put to her in 
 halting Sicilian, Fannia merely raised her shoulders, 
 rolled her eyes, and responded, heavily: 
 
 "Eh, this is men's business, Signura may God 
 forgive them!" 
 
 And she went about her work, her bare feet of a 
 savage dragging over the tiles, her deep bosom heav- 
 ing with sighs suppressed, her strong features chang- 
 ing, now and then, from apprehension to that dumb 
 stoicism with which half-aboriginal women endure 
 the feuds of their loved ones. At times, Ghirlaine 
 heard her praying in her room, to the image of the 
 Madonna. Afterward, her low brow would be 
 smoother. 
 
 "Don't fret yourself, Signura. It's our lot, that's 
 all. Men must do their work in the world, and we 
 ours. We're made to give life, and they to take it. 
 Worry won't change the fact. . . ." 
 
 She added: 
 
 "As for that, if our men were different, we should 
 have no use for them! For after all, it's because 
 they're what they are that we care for them. To 
 care for one of them, of course he must be un onto 
 a dare-devil. That's why I wouldn't have married 
 the postmaster, even if there had been no Annibale.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 297 
 
 A poor thing, for a fact, that postmaster! He'd 
 have thought a long time, I'll warrant, before he'd 
 have jabbed a knife into any one!" 
 
 Ghirlaine made a gesture of horror. 
 
 "And you mean to tell me it's such things that 
 attract the women of these parts to men!" 
 
 "Eh! Is it different hi other places, Holy Virgin! 
 What else, then, should make us give ourselves to 
 them? To know, when they put their hands upon 
 us, 'This is one who would kill me, like a stroke of 
 lightning, if I deceived him who would kill any 
 man that tried to take me from him!' Ai! For a 
 fact, that makes us feel that we've got something 
 worth while in our arms!" 
 
 Ghirlaine shuddered, but made no response. And 
 Fannia mused: 
 
 "Still, one pays, at a time like this! . . ." 
 
 She took up the crying baby, rigid in his tight 
 swaddling-clothes against the board, and calmly un- 
 fastened her ragged bodice. 
 
 "But if I worry too much he gets a colic. That's 
 it ! The men throw the stone, and the ripples spread 
 and spread. ..." 
 
 On the second afternoon of this new tenseness, 
 Ghirlaine went out, and lost herself in the brush. 
 She had never ventured so far before. But she felt 
 the need of getting away from that house where ter- 
 rible things seemed tottering to a crash. 
 
 In the end, she gained the northern cliffs. The 
 path along the edge of the precipice tempted her. 
 Without thought of danger, she followed it eastward.
 
 298 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 It dipped toward the little valley that ran out to the 
 brink. Amazed, she stared down at the Doric 
 temple. 
 
 For the moment, she forgot everything save the 
 beauty of that ancient, flower-grown pile, drenched 
 with sunshine amid the foliage. Then she advanced 
 to the door. The sea was calm to-day: from that 
 narrow portal no ghostly voices issued, to give her 
 pause. Her foot was on the threshold. 
 
 Suddenly the sharp cry: 
 
 "Stop where you are!" 
 
 And Sebastian, Mauser in hand, came springing 
 down through the bushes into the valley. He ap- 
 proached her quickly. 
 
 "You were going in there?" 
 
 This time, he had caught her off her guard. Her 
 heart-beats commenced to suffocate her. But she 
 would not admit her fright. She uttered: 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 He collected himself. In ordinary tones: 
 
 "I advise a guide." 
 
 So she drew back, and turned away. 
 
 Walking beside her, he began quietly to relate the 
 legend of the Old Ones, the mystery of their voices, 
 the tragedy of the sailor and the priest He de- 
 scribed his first visit there, the ingenuity of the echo- 
 well and the pitfall. 
 
 "You see, it's the sort of place one shouldn't rush 
 into blindly. If you like, I'll show you the trap. 
 But you must promise you'll never come here alone. 
 There are other dangers than that."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 299 
 
 She stopped, looked at him steadily, and retorted: 
 
 "You mean, I suppose, that I might meet some 
 one whom you're expecting." 
 
 "Quite so. But not the one you're expecting." 
 
 And after a moment's consideration, he told her of 
 Nino, the letter to Naples, the coming of the two- 
 mountebanks. Their intention was obvious to spy, 
 surprise, kill, steal, and escape on a fishing-boat 
 before the alarm. 
 
 "To be sure, Nino won't trouble us any more. 
 But his colleagues will be all the keener not to say 
 nastier now that it's become a vendetta of blood. . . . 
 Besides, that must have been a rosy prospectus he 
 sent off, to bring two such capable Camorristi all this 
 way. Do you mind my asking what you gave him, 
 to mail that card to Sangallo?" 
 
 This question reached her like the last of a succes- 
 sion of stunning blows. She heard : 
 
 "He just tore it up, that card, and threw it away. 
 You might almost as well have handed it to me! 
 But don't be discouraged. They're coming anyhow. 
 I had word of that by the steamer. You'll soon be 
 free." 
 
 He stroked the butt of the Mauser, reflectively. 
 
 "Was it diamonds?" 
 
 What use for subterfuge now? Her lips moved. 
 At last, very low: 
 
 "I gave him a diamond out of my chain. ..." 
 
 "Ah. Well, now we must see that they don't get 
 the rest and us, in the bargain. The way for you 
 to help, is to keep to the villa. Until your friends 
 arrive. ."
 
 300 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 He inspected her critically. 
 
 She was wearing a sage-green linen dress, the pop- 
 py-trimmed hat, and tan outing-boots. The things 
 fitted and became her. They were from the best 
 shops in Tunis, and, before that, from Paris. They 
 seemed nearly to reclothe her in the old, fashionable 
 simplicity of their first day of meeting. 
 
 Her dazed wits were slow to comprehend his look. 
 Finally, however, flushing, she responded: 
 
 "Since my other clothes disappeared, I suppose it 
 was your idea to emphasize as much as possible this 
 travesty of obligation. ..." 
 
 He took a few steps to and fro. His face smooth 
 again, he returned to examine her costume at- 
 tentively. 
 
 "That dress looks surprisingly well to me. It 
 can't be so old skirts of that cut were only coming 
 out in the Rue de la Paix in March. It's a curious 
 thing: I associate my first sight of them with a bouil- 
 labaisse and a quail stewed in wine and green grapes. 
 And that was my last luncheon before I set out for 
 Rome. A luncheon that approached the ideal. The 
 Paris ideal, I mean, of course not Torregiante's. 
 Ideals vary so, don't they?" 
 
 She could only stare at him. He seemed to have 
 no real conception either of his position or that to 
 which he had brought her. She looked at his broad, 
 high forehead the brow of an intelligent individual 
 and wondered what normal convolution was lack- 
 ing behind it. And she had, all at once, a desire to 
 fathom the secret of this extraordinarily misshapen 
 nature.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 301 
 
 She said: 
 
 "Tell me this: is it safe to be here now?" 
 
 "If it weren't, I shouldn't allow it." 
 
 "Then, since we're here . . ." 
 
 He was right: the time had passed for any small 
 subterfuges between them. Their situation had 
 raised them, at last, even in antagonism, to a plane 
 where anything but frankness seemed petty. 
 
 He took off his coat, rolled it up, and laid it across 
 a bowlder, in the shade of an oleander. She sat 
 down. He lighted a cigar. Savoring the excellent 
 tobacco luxuriously, he gazed with half-shut eyes out 
 to sea, toward the invisible coast of Italy. Noth- 
 ing in his demeanor betrayed his intense satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 She asked: 
 
 "Does the steamer come from there?" 
 
 "From the northeast." He pointed to the right. 
 "Sicily lies off there. But Sangallo will probably 
 arrive direct from the north." 
 
 She nodded. After a pause: 
 
 "Awhile ago you spoke of ideals. I should like to 
 know what that word means to you." 
 
 "An ideal? . . . Why, the hope of some gratifica- 
 tion that doesn't exist." 
 
 "Some gratification." 
 
 "Certainly. Since there are all sorts of gratifica- 
 tion physical and spiritual, aesthetic and intellect- 
 ual, sensuously and ascetically religious, logical and 
 emotional, what do I know? One nature is drawn 
 toward one sort, another to another, some natures to
 
 302 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 nearly all. But the attainable gratification is never 
 perfect. There's always, I think, in whatever human 
 achievement, a sense of something lacking, a feeling 
 of incompleteness, an inner conviction, of merely 
 semi-victory, that's akin to defeat. In realizing one's 
 dream, one finds that it's not what one expected. 
 . . . The true artist gazes at the completed fabric 
 with a subtle despondency. The visionary, who has 
 arranged the problems of life to his satisfaction, has 
 now and then, I'll wager, a sense of profound un- 
 certainty. . . . The lover, after the intoxication of 
 the first embrace, understands that the woman he 
 loves must be a makeshift for something he imagined 
 her to be." 
 
 From under his lowered eyelids he sent at her a 
 swift look. That shot had told! For presently, in 
 a sharpened tone, she returned: 
 
 "A man with that opinion should hardly be the one 
 to wreck everything, for the disillusion that he ex- 
 pects beforehand!" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "But men are made like that! None is so disillu- 
 sioned as to be incapable of one more illusion. None 
 is so sane that he doesn't contain the capacity for an 
 aberration into idealism. The atheist dreams, per- 
 haps, of perfection in some art. The man who knows 
 nothing of art sees a vision, maybe, of his socialistic 
 world. The saint and the sensualist suffer, in the 
 last analysis, from the same unquenchable thirst. 
 It's the ineradicable mental malady of mankind." 
 
 She answered:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 303 
 
 "It's the ineradicable proof of divinity in man- 
 kind." 
 
 And, as he made no reply: 
 
 "With your scientific training, and your reputed 
 perception of life, one would think it might have 
 occurred to you that the world is forever moving! 
 That everything is constantly changing, refashioning 
 itself, developing, and aspiring. These very flowers 
 aren't what they were once. They plan their lives. 
 They alter their physical structure for the better. 
 They show an intelligence, a persistence, a bravery, 
 that looks all the while toward the future, toward 
 their perpetuity one might as well say, toward their 
 immortality. And this same force is hi everything. 
 It's intent on improvement. It's born of a belief in 
 something higher to come. It's bound to attain an 
 ideal. . . . That trust, implanted in all nature 
 have you really never recognized it, or seen the won- 
 der of it, or felt some kinship with it? " 
 
 He smiled, while responding: 
 
 "Your example's rather an unfortunate one. You 
 speak of flowers, and their experiments in the cause 
 of procreation. You should know that it's not im- 
 mortality they aspire to, but love. Love happens to 
 be the force that perpetuates the world. The su- 
 preme motive-power. The force, in fact, that has 
 brought us here. . . . Instead of praising the flowers 
 for their charming efforts, you'd better blame them, 
 to be thoroughly consistent. For all their ingenuity 
 is merely a counterpart of mine, to attain the object 
 of my desires."
 
 304 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 For a while she was silent. In the end: 
 
 "It's useless, our ever talking together!" 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "We speak of such things in different tongues." 
 
 "Pardon me. If it's love you mean, there's only 
 one language in the world for that. But perhaps, 
 after all, you've never wandered into the regions 
 where that language is learned? ..." 
 
 He scrutinized her cold profile intently, then added, 
 as if in pity: 
 
 " And possibly never will. ..." 
 
 She stood up, tingling to her finger-tips with an 
 indignation that she did not know how to put into 
 words. She could only flash forth at him: 
 
 "I see more clearly than ever how many doors are 
 shut to you!" 
 
 He rose at once to his feet, threw away his cigar, 
 then returned: 
 
 "Possibly. But has it ever entered your mind 
 that to you, also, a few doors may be shut? ... I 
 fancy that all your life you've heard nothing from 
 men but flattery. Suppose you heard now a little 
 of something else?" 
 
 She lifted her head. Her lip curled. 
 
 "That would hardly astonish me!" 
 
 He stood looking down at her with a new expres- 
 sion. She had a shock of surprise, of bewilderment. 
 Was it contempt? 
 
 Suddenly she laughed aloud, in a voice that she 
 did not recognize. That would be too droll! 
 
 His eyes blazed. He exclaimed:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 305 
 
 "Precisely. If you had learned even the rudi- 
 ments of that language, we shouldn't be here now dis- 
 cussing a mixture of metaphysics and botany ! Long 
 since, you'd have responded instinctively, as if obe- 
 dient to the very voice of Destiny, to a situation, a 
 climax of life, a passion, so transcendental. . . . 
 But, as it is, you happen to be the last word in emo- 
 tional inaccessibility. In you there exists only cold 
 egotism, self-retention, an almost incredibly unfemi- 
 nine heartlessness. You're not to be influenced by 
 however powerful an external passion. Your heart 
 can't make the response that is made in voluntarily , 
 in fully developed individuals, to an overwhelming 
 desire. Your affections, if ever you feel them, must 
 always have the pallidity, and the coldness, of utter 
 selfishness. Your life with Pamfort was going to be a 
 sort of sentimental minuette a travesty of real love, 
 that your nominal physical submission would have 
 made more degrading than the least inspired of all 
 those liaisons up there in Rome!" 
 
 A low laugh escaped him. 
 
 "Ah, but I read your thoughts a while ago! You 
 were wondering just where I was deficient. But with 
 you, I don't have to speculate. You have no fibre 
 in you capable of submission, of self-surrender, of 
 defiance of all the world for the most intense thing 
 you'll ever have in your life, of abandonment to the 
 natural joy of your sex not of receiving, but of giv- 
 ing. . . . But then, you're not a natural woman. If 
 you have the external appearance, you lack all the 
 significant inner organism. A statue in a temple
 
 306 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 may not be more beautiful to look at, but it will 
 repay its devotees just as lavishly. . . . Up there, it 
 seemed to me that you must awake become human. 
 Another ideal! For if you couldn't respond to what 
 I've felt, you'll never respond. No: you were born 
 to promise much, and give nothing. To destroy the 
 hopes you raise. To prove once more the folly of the 
 ideal. 
 
 "But why do I say all this? You can't under- 
 stand me." 
 
 For an instant, she remained numb. Then, grad- 
 ually fury spread through her. She found her 
 voice: 
 
 "Ah! This outdoes all the rest! Because such a 
 man as you can't evoke it, it doesn't exist! . . . 
 Yes, thank God, we do speak to each other in differ- 
 ent languages! ..." 
 
 "One generally takes pride in his deficiencies." 
 
 "You say that!" 
 
 Ignoring that speech, he looked at her with a 
 frigid keenness, as he had never looked at her before. 
 He said: 
 
 "For you are a deficient, you know. There are 
 certain exaltations that you can never feel. Once 
 on a time, you commiserated with me, because I 
 couldn't realize a Divinity. To-day I commiserate 
 with you, because fields of consciousness just as vast 
 will always be closed to you. You'll die without 
 having lived, that's all." 
 
 Her face twitching, her anger choking her, she got 
 out the words:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 307 
 
 "You know in your heart that's false! You know 
 that if you could be in his place " 
 
 "Pamfort? Ah, he'll be satisfied, perhaps. He's 
 one more who'll always skim the surface of things, 
 and imagine he's living. I wish you joy of each 
 other." 
 
 This last insult was too much. She could hardly 
 repress her desire to spring at him and strike him. 
 And, with her fury a fury utterly new to her she 
 had a sensation of profound humiliation, of baffle- 
 ment, of loss. She had counted on his passion being a 
 part of his punishment. But now his passion seemed 
 done for? 
 
 "One would say . . . you were almost ready to let 
 me go ! ... If only you'd reached these conclusions 
 sooner! . . . You might have gone on, a while longer, 
 in your precious career, of shamelessness, and useless- 
 ness." 
 
 " Uselessness? Is it you who say that?" 
 
 He stared at her in apparent curiosity, then de- 
 manded: 
 
 "I presume you don't visualize yourself at all? 
 . . . Your past life, full of luxury, of refining in- 
 fluences, of elegant training what's it been for? 
 Your superb acceptance of fortune with what return? 
 Do you know that off there, on the other side of the 
 world, countless men are laboring with their muscles 
 and nerves, from morning till night, enduring danger 
 and weariness in a hundred forms, growing old before 
 their time, to give you your position in life? They 
 bought you your way into high places. They dressed
 
 308 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 you in silks and jewels. They fed you with foods 
 that they had never imagined. They surrounded 
 you with the homage of courts. But what have you 
 ever paid back? And what will you ever pay? By 
 Jove, if we're to talk of uselessness, we're in the same 
 box, you and I!" 
 
 He concluded, calmly: 
 
 "You understand, I don't blame you. By the 
 same token, I don't blame myself. We take what we 
 can, and we give what we feel like giving. The fact 
 remains, however, that from the world's point of 
 view the point of view you value so highly we're 
 just a couple of parasites together." 
 
 She fell back a pace, as if that had been a blow. 
 But he said: 
 
 "One day, in Rome, I saw a strange thing. In a 
 studio, a man and a woman together. A sculptor 
 and a young peasant-girl. . . ." 
 
 His eyes turned blank, as he contemplated the 
 memory of that scene. 
 
 "She'd come to his door, a model. A beautiful 
 creature, with the splendor of something wild and 
 original. That dress you have on would have made 
 her ridiculous. Your jewels would have cheapened 
 her. She was formed for archaic garments, for goat- 
 skins, for nudity. 
 
 "And her heart was like that. Hot, impulsive, 
 capable of deep passions, sacrifices, crimes. The 
 heart of a being intensely human, unrefined, un- 
 spoiled fresh, as it were, from the youth of the 
 world. A natural creature.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 309 
 
 " They loved each other. The simplicity and fear- 
 lessness of that love belonged to the age she seemed a 
 part of. Indeed, they were made for each other 
 two natures almost unique to-day, but quite oblivi- 
 ous to the anachronism of their surroundings. They 
 gave each other everything. And the result was 
 wonderful. 
 
 "For him I'm sure she was the cause of great work. 
 I know very little of his past life. I don't know how 
 much she developed him that humble instrument. 
 But I know that in her he found his dreams come 
 true. Dreams, I mean, of an art of marvellous vigor 
 and health, inexpressibly pure, with the purity, so to 
 say, of the dawn of life. 
 
 "And what he's done, since they came together, 
 has been an inspiration to lives about them. United, 
 they've attained, through the interaction of love and 
 work, a peculiar majesty of value. Even I could 
 feel that, when I looked at a certain thing he'd done. 
 In that marble, as well as in them, there was an inde- 
 scribable incentive toward change, a force that im- 
 pelled one, irresistibly, to seek. . . . What I felt it's 
 difficult to explain. I may not know very clearly 
 myself, even now. . . .But there came to me a need 
 of air, space, solitude, nature, and of a love, and all 
 its attendant emotions, appropriate to that. And 
 because my mind was continually full of you, I 
 thought, 'If only ' 
 
 "Chance and impulse produced the opportunity. 
 But I had misjudged my instrument. Behind her, 
 one may say there was nothing. Behind you, there
 
 310 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 was far too much. She remained intensely a woman. 
 You, by comparison, had practically ceased to be 
 one. Not your fault, naturally but mine. An error 
 of comprehension. It seemed to me, up there, that 
 you must contain so much even that ! . . . 
 
 "All the same, consider the vitality of the ideal! 
 That vague, untranslatable desire still clings to me. 
 If I could begin all over, I'd try again." 
 
 And, looking her in the eyes, he ended: 
 
 "But now I believe I'd go to a savage, like her, in 
 that search." 
 
 She managed to gasp: 
 
 "A savage! . . . Surely! . . . For that's what 
 you are! . . ." 
 
 She sent one more flash at him. But it seemed to 
 fall midway between them. She left him, blinded 
 and suffocated by a frenzy of impotence. 
 
 In the villa, she twisted her hands, and ground her 
 teeth together. 
 
 To kill him! To see him dead! Or rather, to see 
 him dying! 
 
 The sight of her face in the mirror turned her mo- 
 tionless, cold all over. 
 
 For she saw the face of a wild thing, a savage. . . .
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 SEBASTIAN remained before the temple, looking 
 out toward Italy. 
 
 It was late afternoon. The calm sea displayed, on 
 its vast expanse of blue, long lines of light, some sil- 
 very, some copper-colored. To the north, a little 
 clump of lateen-sails was floating in four flecks of 
 palest gold. But nowhere did any other craft appear. 
 
 "Why don't they come? . . ." 
 
 He put away his binoculars reluctantly. He would 
 have preferred, to-day, to meet the issue, and have 
 done with it. 
 
 Just now, while looking at her altered face, in the 
 midst of his attack he had realized completely all that 
 he had done to her. And there had come to him a 
 desire to escape as soon as might be into oblivion. 
 
 In this spot, so fair, so silent, and so natural, where 
 simplicity had supplanted extravagance, where fru- 
 gality had replaced debauchery, a veil of fumy emo- 
 tions, which had stood between him and his con- 
 science for years, was gradually thinning. His past 
 mode of life, the associations toward which he had 
 always gravitated hitherto, the excesses in which he 
 had steeped himself, the perversities augmented by 
 defiance, would all have been impossible here. On 
 this isle, despite its vivid luxuriance, its bizarre
 
 312 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 exuberance of form and color, an influence well- 
 nigh austere enveloped him and worked upon him. 
 There rose from the earth an exhalation of unpol- 
 luted nature. The sane breeze off the water caught 
 from the foliage odors mysteriously reminiscent of 
 childhood. The sky had never seemed so close and 
 yet so deep, so personal, so significant. For a long 
 while, indeed, he had almost forgot that the sky 
 could hold other significances than aesthetic ones. 
 
 The hour was approaching when his whole or- 
 ganism, the mad stimulation of years dying out in all 
 its fibres, would return to its nearest imitation of 
 normality. ... Of what feelings would he be ca- 
 pable, then? 
 
 Already, at any rate, remorse was creeping into his 
 heart. Remorse! An emotion that he had forgot- 
 ten for so long that he had believed himself incapable 
 of it! 
 
 He turned to the temple. No sound issued from 
 the door-way. The unusual silence was like a cessa- 
 tion of menace, a mute invitation to enter. He went 
 inside. 
 
 For a time, by the light of tapers, he scanned the 
 simple, rough-hewn walls, the roof so finely joined, 
 the humble altar at the far end of the chamber, hold- 
 ing in its hollowed top, after all these centuries, the 
 ashes of an ancient offering. One would have said 
 that this had been the sanctuary of some very pure 
 religion, but for the treacherous pitfall. 
 
 He passed round the trap, and approached the little 
 altar. As his eyes roamed over the wall behind it,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 313 
 
 he saw, high up, an inscription in archaic Greek that 
 he had missed before. He discerned the words: 
 
 To reach my altar, that part of you which you have loved 
 best must be destroyed. 
 
 He smiled at last. 
 
 "The pitfall explained? Symbolism made em- 
 phatic with a vengeance!" 
 
 The taper went out. In the darkness, he remained 
 for a while quite motionless. But it seemed to him 
 that he was not alone. All that had ever come to 
 pass in that little sanctuary of an unknown faith, all 
 the thoughts and prayers and hopes that had been 
 born there, rose round him, in the obscurity, animate 
 once more. . . . Or, at least, he felt that a host of 
 strange influences were assailing him. ... Or were 
 those influences one instead of many, and stirring, 
 instead of round about him, just within himself? . . . 
 
 The Isle of Life! What had it meant to the world, 
 what had it been, what force had it exerted on its 
 time and on the future, before the centuries had 
 effaced its history? 
 
 At last, he shrugged his shoulders, and regained 
 the sunshine. 
 
 On the other side of the headland, half-way down 
 the hill, he found Annibale behind the screen of 
 agaves, watching the village. 
 
 "What have you seen?" Sebastian demanded, sit- 
 ting down beside the sentinel, and offering a cigarette. 
 
 "No one has tried to come up. Two of Big Pa-
 
 314 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 ganni's children are on the southern slope with the 
 goats. The hermit has been out walking. He 
 showed himself on the eastern ridge an hour ago, 
 then passed down into the groves." 
 
 "Are you sure it was he?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 " It's a far look. From here no one could make out 
 his face." 
 
 "Eh, I take it neither of Nino's friends knows how 
 to carry himself like a Signuri." 
 
 "The hermit carries himself like a Signuri!" 
 
 "Gia! Like a gentleman." 
 
 "You surprise me. All the hermits that I've ever 
 seen were dirty, shambling fellows about as intelli- 
 gent-looking as gorillas." 
 
 "It needs several kinds of fish to make up God's 
 netful!" . 
 
 Sebastian gazed down at the village. Despite the 
 clarity of the air, to-day there was an unusual effect 
 of distance. At the bottom of the great gray-green 
 amphitheatre, the houses, strewn round the beach, 
 looked like the vertebrae of some monster cast up by 
 the deep. The few little figures, moving about and 
 between them, seemed almost like ants. Some pur- 
 plish threads drying nets were stretched out on the 
 sand. Here and there, from the water, a rowing-boat 
 sent thus far only the faded red of its interior an 
 impression as if of a rose-petal afloat. The esplanade 
 was deserted. The feluccas were all at sea. 
 
 "And what," remarked Sebastian, "would you say 
 our two Camorristi were doing now?"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 315 
 
 " Maybe sitting in the Grand Cafe of the Sea, over 
 a cool glass of wine may they die in a pest-house !" 
 
 "But when, in your opinion, will they make their 
 little attempt?" 
 
 " Who knows that? They take their ease. There's 
 no hurry. Why should they get themselves in a 
 perspiration, when we're here all the time?" 
 
 "I'd like to be done with those two, at least. Inac- 
 tion has never appealed to me much." 
 
 "Truly, Signuri? But it's not so bad, sitting here 
 and watching. The future's full of time. It will 
 happen when God is quite ready. One can't very 
 well hurry God. Unless, perhaps, one chanced to 
 be a saint up in Paradise?" 
 
 Sebastian got up. 
 
 "For my part, Annibale, I'm going down." 
 
 "To the village, Signuri?" 
 
 " To the village. Perhaps I might even manage to 
 bait them on?" 
 
 "It will soon be dark," Annibale protested, knit- 
 ting his handsome brows. 
 
 "All the better. The darkness may give them 
 more stomach." 
 
 "To follow you?" 
 
 "Precisely. They'd be afraid to use fire-arms here. 
 I can walk home all the way with my back turned. 
 If I managed to lead them past, I suppose you could 
 hit the broadest one?" 
 
 Annibale's classic features were disfigured by an 
 unpleasant smile. 
 
 " To-day this old machine is loaded with iron filings
 
 316 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 and tacks. . . . But joking aside, Signuri," he added 
 earnestly, "knives are far better. A knife-hilt al- 
 ways snuggles into the hand so sympathetically!" 
 
 Sebastian shook his head. 
 
 "These Camorristi are like eels at close quarters. 
 To play the game safe, we ought to blow them into 
 the air from a distance, and leave their stilettos be- 
 side them, for the carabineers to see it was self- 
 defence." 
 
 Annibale reflected, at last grinned broadly, and 
 rubbed his large palms together. 
 
 "After all, we may amuse ourselves yet at this 
 business, Signuri ! A candle to the Madonna, out of 
 my wages, if we bag them both together!" 
 
 "By all means! We'll be extravagant, and make 
 it a pair." 
 
 Sebastian unfastened the rifle-stock from the 
 Mauser automatic, slipped the latter into his pocket, 
 and went down the hill. 
 
 When he came to the village, the sun was low, and 
 veiled in filmy clouds. The sea was a blinding sheet 
 of silver, through which, half absorbed, as it were, by 
 the enveloping dazzle, a dozen fishing-boats stole in 
 toward land. Before the beach, knee-deep in the 
 still water, some boys stood watching the little fleet 
 of peaked sails. Against the luminous expanse, their 
 half-naked, brown bodies seemed intensely atten- 
 uated, drooping to poses in which appeared the vigor, 
 softened by grace, that resides in ancient statues. 
 
 Sebastian traversed the esplanade. In the door- 
 ways, seated beside the family crates of chickens,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 317 
 
 slatternly women were spinning flax, while their chil- 
 dren, squatting in the dust, fanned the flames, in the 
 charcoal-boxes set out on the highway, by which the 
 evening meal was to be cooked. From door to door, 
 and from loggia to loggia, the women gossiped, with 
 a racket of voices shrill and harsh. But at Sebas- 
 tian's approach, they called in their young ones, fell 
 silent, and averted their heads. When he had 
 passed, they glared after him, with eyes full of hos- 
 tility and fear. There took place among them a 
 silent, but violent, pantomime of distrust. Many 
 made gestures to avert misfortune. The babies, 
 peering round their mother's skirts, imitated these 
 motions with their tiny fingers. 
 
 Before the Grand Cafe of the Sea, some benches 
 and tables stood ready for the evening trade. There, 
 with their backs against the wall, the two mounte- 
 banks were dozing. 
 
 To-day they had put away their eccentric cos- 
 tumes. They wore coats and trousers patched all 
 over, and wretched wooden-soled shoes. The smaller 
 one, who on steam-ship day had carried the guitar, 
 sprawled back with his hat pulled over his face but 
 in the crown of the hat there was a hole. On the 
 other hand, his companion, the ugly wretch with the 
 extraordinary shoulders, made no such pretence. He 
 stared at Sebastian openly. But in his black eyes 
 there appeared a sort of sickly dimness. 
 
 This fellow, in fact, looked ill. His dark, square 
 visage, as coarse-featured as if chopped out of 
 wood, showed a vaguely bluish pallor. He seemed
 
 318 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 to be sinking into his chair beneath a supreme 
 debility. 
 
 Sebastian sat down at a table near by. To serve 
 him, the Syndic himself came out of the tunnel-like 
 wine-shop. 
 
 At sight of his customer, the cafe keeper's apoplec- 
 tic countenance brightened. Probably he remem- 
 bered that this stranger had complimented him. 
 And compliments, particularly in Torregiante, may 
 overbalance a good deal of indefinite suspicion. 
 
 When he had drunk a tumblerful of chianti, Se- 
 bastian ordered wine and oil for the villa. He in- 
 quired how long it would take to procure some cases 
 of Asti spumante, and some of the best vermouth. 
 The Syndic, no doubt, received the impression of un- 
 limited good business in prospect. His eyes began to 
 shine. His whole face ingenuously expressed the 
 thought, "After all, they have certainly misjudged 
 him, those others!" When Sebastian produced his 
 pocket-book, to pay in advance, the cafe keeper 
 looked as if he saw there the source of a neat little 
 income for many days. 
 
 Sebastian negligently exhibited a fat packet of 
 bank-notes. While counting out the price, he be- 
 came aware of a gradual tenseness in the two figures 
 near by. Between his fingers he held perhaps more 
 money than Torregiante had ever seen in one heap. 
 It was certainly far more than enough to tempt a 
 couple of Camorristi to action? 
 
 When the Syndic had received his pay, he cried, in 
 a tone exceptionally full and strong, on account of 
 his satisfaction:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 319 
 
 "A receipted bill in one moment, Signuri!" 
 
 "Nonsense. Receipted bills between men of 
 honor?" 
 
 The Syndic drew in his breath, and looked at the 
 vagabonds proudly. Sebastian added: 
 
 "I'm not a bad judge of men, you know. Nor, I 
 venture to say, are you." 
 
 "Daweru! I know a man when I've looked at 
 him once or twice!" 
 
 "Naturally. Otherwise, you'd hardly have be- 
 come a leader of men. But not many have the gift." 
 
 "Not many, indeed, Signuri!" the Syndic agreed, 
 twirling his walrus-like mustache. 
 
 "For instance, in Torregiante " 
 
 "Mah! In Turrigianti! What should they know 
 of human nature!" 
 
 "All the same, they form decided opinions." 
 
 "Goats, Signuri! One leads the rest follow. 
 That's it!" 
 
 " But if any one leads in such things, to my mind it 
 ought to be you." 
 
 The Syndic, as this idea penetrated his brain, 
 flushed brick-red. And Sebastian knew that he had 
 dropped a thought which might result in some slight 
 abatement, at least, of Torregiante's hostility. At 
 once, he stood up, and shook hands. Then he turned 
 to the mountebanks. 
 
 "How is business?" he inquired, genially. 
 
 The broad-shouldered ruffian answered, in a dull 
 voice, with apparent effort: 
 
 "Little good, Signuri! We made a mistake to 
 come here. Every one is too poor."
 
 320 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 His bluish face was covered with moisture. His 
 broad, flat lips were almost violet-colored. His eye- 
 lids, less, as it seemed, from secretiveness than from 
 lassitude, slowly covered his large, dim eyes. 
 
 "This one," thought Sebastian, "is almost hors de 
 combat, for some reason. However. ..." 
 
 He took out his pocket-book, and laid a five-lire 
 note on the table. Later on, he might want the 
 Syndic to remember that he had exposed his money 
 before these men. 
 
 "To change your luck," he said, and turned away. 
 
 Old Ilario, just landed from his felucca, was try- 
 ing to hurry past unseen. But Sebastian, with a 
 friendly smile, intercepted the fisherman. 
 
 "Good-evening, Ilario. I suppose you know, by 
 this time, that you're a grandpapa?" 
 
 The old man's rugged face, the color of mahogany, 
 framed in white bristles, flinched for an instant, then 
 hardened again. He raised his chin. His eyes, his 
 broken fangs, his silver ear-rings, glinted. With a 
 ferocious sneer, he rasped out: 
 
 "A man can't be a grandfather who has no 
 daughter!" 
 
 Sebastian went on, imperturbably: 
 
 " I should like to see a healthier proof that you are. 
 Already he has lungs like a leather bag-pipe, that 
 little brat! And a strength to tear his mother's 
 clothing half off her back. And eyes that can look 
 at the sun without winking. In addition to which, he 
 is probably the most depraved little devil, for his age, 
 that I've ever had the pleasure of seeing, for tan-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 321 
 
 trums, and squalling, and scratching, and God knows 
 what misbehavior. . . . Come up some day and have 
 a look at him." 
 
 He could not more aptly have described the Sicilian 
 ideal for an infant the type of offspring that gives 
 parents and relatives the best cause for pride. A 
 faint tremor crossed the ancient's puckered mouth. 
 Suddenly, with a murderous glare, he barked: 
 
 "Let the two of them bring him down to see me 
 and I'll promise to make him an orphan!" 
 
 He stamped away, shaking curses out of his 
 throat. The Syndic remarked: 
 
 "Eh, eh, we nurse our anger, you see, in Turri- 
 gianti!" 
 
 Said Sebastian: 
 
 "He is only angry with himself. And that's often 
 the cause of the harshest words of all. . . ." 
 
 After a moment, he went away, without looking 
 behind him. 
 
 In order to give the Camorristi time for thought 
 and decision, he penetrated a pestilential alleyway, 
 gamed the rear of the village, and strolled, through 
 the vegetable terraces, up the hillside. But from 
 above the groves called to him. He continued to 
 ascend. Amid the trees, he remembered, with an 
 unaccustomed sensation of pleasure, Little Paganni. 
 
 As he approached the rocky clearing, he missed the 
 sound of the flute. However, a goat-bell jingled. 
 He parted the bushes quietly. 
 
 The goats were all afoot, peering at him with low- 
 ered beards, their hind legs spread out, their udders 
 distended with milk. Near by, on the grass, two
 
 322 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 children lay asleep, arms round each other, faces 
 upturned to the softening light. They were Little 
 Paganni and his four-year-old sister Giacinta. 
 
 Sebastian drew near on noiseless feet. 
 
 The two small faces, dewy from slumber, were 
 startling in their beauty. The tiny girl's flushed 
 cheeks were framed by a mass of auburn curls. Her 
 mouth, half open, was like a bud. Her sole garment, 
 twisted up, revealed the sturdy, dimpled legs of a per- 
 fect physical specimen. The little, separate toes, the 
 fat fingers hah uncurled from their embrace of the 
 brother's neck, were as if made for kisses. Deep 
 in his heart Sebastian felt a shock of something 
 new. ... He imagined it to be his aesthetic sense, 
 recognizing fully, for the first time, the immature 
 human animal in its perfection. 
 
 All at once, with a single movement, Little Pa- 
 ganni sat upright. His eyes fell on Sebastian. And, 
 involuntarily perhaps, he threw one puny arm across 
 his sister's body. 
 
 The baby, still half asleep, glimpsing the towering 
 figure and the strange face, uttered a cry. Sebastian 
 stepped back. 
 
 "I'm sorry I frightened you, Pan." 
 
 The goatherd stiffened his lips. 
 
 "I am not frightened, Signuri," he answered, sul- 
 lenly. 
 
 "Then tell Giacinta that I'm not going to eat her." 
 
 Little Paganni addressed his sister. 
 
 "Why did I buy you an amulet? Have you no 
 faith at all, love of God?" 
 
 Giacinta took a wild look at Sebastian from be-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 323 
 
 tween her fingers, then hid her face in Little Pa- 
 ganni's lap. Her infantile wails resounded: 
 
 "Mi scantu! Mi scantu! E cattivu! . . ." 
 
 "She's afraid of you," announced Little Paganni, 
 tensely resentful. 
 
 "So I'm sorry to see." 
 
 "She says you're bad." 
 
 "So I hear." 
 
 "Well, what do you expect? These small children 
 are all like that. They can't keep the truth to them- 
 selves." 
 
 He patted Giacinta's head soothingly. She blot- 
 ted her face against him harder than ever. One still 
 heard the muffled sobs: 
 
 "E cattivu. . . . E cattivu. . . ." 
 
 At last, Sebastian said: 
 
 "So. They can't hide the truth?" 
 
 "Eh!" 
 
 "Then, you also think I'm bad, I suppose?" 
 
 The seven-year-old averted his eyes. His delicate 
 skin flushed scarlet. Finally, with a shrug, he re- 
 sponded, in angry accents: 
 
 "Everybody knows that." 
 
 "Ah! ... Yet you talk to me, Little Paganni." 
 
 " Because you come here. Because I'd be ashamed 
 to run away." 
 
 There was a silence. Sebastian remonstrated, 
 gently: 
 
 "Still, the last time I appeared, you were rather 
 more hospitable than to-day." 
 
 "You hadn't frightened my women-folks. Be-
 
 324 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 sides, what's said now in the village hadn't been said, 
 at that time." 
 
 "And what's said now in the village?" 
 
 "That something terrible must happen to Turri- 
 gianti, because you've come here. . One's gone al- 
 ready! Nino! . . ." 
 
 On remembering that, the boy turned ashen. But 
 at last, clenching his hands, he got out the words : 
 
 "Is it true . . . that you took him ... to make 
 ink for the Devil out of his blood?" 
 
 Sebastian laughed. But, at that sound, Little Pa- 
 ganni sprang to his feet, and stood astride of his 
 sister, his face distorted by terror and hatred, his 
 small body aquiver with defiance. Stretching out his 
 hands with the fingers curved like claws, he shouted: 
 
 "Go away! If you don't I have a knife in my 
 pocket! I'll kill you with it!" 
 
 The man felt a shiver down his back. All the 
 warmth seemed to leave his heart. 
 
 "Good-by, Pan," he said. "I promise I won't 
 come back." 
 
 He departed. 
 
 Where the groves gave place, at length, to the 
 maize-patches of the lower slope, Sebastian halted 
 in the shelter of a great mass of prickly-pears, and 
 looked down, with unseeing eyes, upon the village. 
 
 The feluccas were all beached. Beyond the dilap- 
 idated roofs, many stout yellow masts stuck up 
 against the water, which was suffused with golden 
 light. The sun had already set : but an intense after- 
 glow remained to fill half the sky with raw chrome-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 325 
 
 yellow. To the west, the heavens contained some at- 
 tenuated and ragged clouds, like vast, random smears 
 of chocolate-colored paint. These gradually faded. 
 Their barbaric hue, abnormal, cruel, was absorbed 
 by the softness of the twilight. 
 
 And the melancholy of that hour found its comple- 
 ment in the immense, unprecedented melancholy of 
 his thoughts. . . . 
 
 He tasted now the full measure of his solitude, his 
 isolation from mankind. His nature and his life had 
 raised round him a barrier from which, at last, affec- 
 tion of .every sort instinctively recoiled. He had 
 long mocked tenderness, and made ruthlessness his 
 ideal. In his commerce with humanity, he had paid 
 out only hardness. And finally humanity was re- 
 turning him his own coin, with interest. 
 
 But for him, the retaliation of the world had not 
 reached its climax in the recriminations of conven- 
 tional beings, or even in the enmity of the woman he 
 professed to love, but, rather, in the aversion of a 
 half-savage child, whose courage and beauty had 
 brought to him the first thrill of a paternal long- 
 ing. 
 
 For the first time in his life, there stole through 
 his mind a dim realization of unworthiness, of a sort 
 of shameful inadequacy, of his deliberate discord 
 with the universe. At that moment, when the boy 
 had faced him, all atremble with contending fright 
 and valiancy, had he not seen, in one flash, the secret 
 of the world's antagonism not the antagonism of 
 blindness, or of hypocrisy, but of all that was in-
 
 326 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 stinctively true in human nature, for all that was 
 perverse in him? . . . 
 
 Staring down, he remained there, hidden by the 
 rough foliage, while the west was extinguished with 
 Sicilian swiftness, and dark descended from the 
 zenith like a curtain. The village faded into the 
 night, till only the scattered window-lights remained, 
 to mark where it had been. With a start, he woke 
 from his revery, to find that the boundaries of his 
 vision had crept inward perilously close. 
 
 He had forgotten the Camorristi! It was too late, 
 now, to play his game with them in safety. Unless 
 he wanted to risk a stab at every hedge he would 
 have to regain the villa by some trick. 
 
 No doubt they would wait for him on the hillside, 
 below Annibale's ambush? In that case, the safe 
 path would be the one along the northern precipice. 
 
 He climbed to the northern ridge, found the path, 
 and set out on his dangerous journey. The way was 
 soon little more than a foot in width. On his left, 
 the perpendicular wall of rock. On his right, black 
 space, and far below, the whisper of the sea. A mis- 
 step might have sent him headlong into the depths 
 and nothing would have been easier than to stumble 
 in this void. . . . He regretted not having taken off 
 his heavy boots. When he came to the platform, he 
 would do so. ... 
 
 Sooner than he expected, his left hand lost touch 
 with the wall. He had reached the platform. 
 
 From cliff to edge, the platform was perhaps a 
 dozen feet in width: but even those narrow limits
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 327 
 
 were invisible. He stood still, to regain his bear- 
 ings. 
 
 And slowly, though he heard and saw nothing, he 
 became aware that he was not alone. 
 
 Two presences. One behind, one in front. 
 
 The Camorristi! 
 
 His hand stole to his pocket. He jerked at his 
 automatic pistol. It was caught in the lining of his 
 coat ! 
 
 Then, while he was tugging at the weapon, came 
 the attack. 
 
 From the encircling gloom, two blacker shadows, 
 hurtling through the air like leaping beasts of prey. 
 Two long, thin flashes brandished steel that barely 
 caught the starlight. Two gasps of effort, as the 
 stilettos were driven at their mark. 
 
 His brain woke to an action miraculously swift. 
 As if at a clarion-call, all his strength and cunning 
 surged to his defence. He realized that he could not 
 get the pistol out in time. But those flying figures 
 were still in mid-air when he had judged then* dis- 
 tance, weighed his chances, acted. 
 
 His foot shot forth, and caught the nearest in the 
 stomach. With a twist, he took the dagger of the 
 second deep in his shoulder-muscles. This assassin 
 instantly plucked out the steel, to stab again. But 
 Sebastian's right hand closed round his wrist. His 
 left went under the other's arm, and clutched the 
 coat. On that leverage, with a sudden jolt he broke 
 the arm at the elbow. The man uttered a sharp cry, 
 dropped his stiletto, and staggered back. And, as
 
 328 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 he tottered on the brink, Sebastian's fist landed with 
 a crack against his chin. The Camorrista vanished 
 into the abyss. 
 
 When he had mastered his faintness, Sebastian 
 struck a match. In the middle of the platform, the 
 broad-shouldered Camorrista lay on his back. His 
 bluish face was contorted. His mouth and eyes were 
 open. He did not move. 
 
 Sebastian dropped the match. His strength was 
 ebbing rapidly. But before losing consciousness, he 
 would have to traverse the remainder of the path, 
 regain the villa. . . . 
 
 He resumed his way, giddy, clinging to the rock, 
 swaying toward the edge, at tunes dropping to his 
 knees, but always struggling on, like an automa- 
 ton. . . . 
 
 In the villa, Ghirlaine was undressing, when she 
 heard a shout of challenge, a crash of furniture, a 
 babble of voices, Fannia's scream. Doors slammed. 
 An unnatural laugh resounded. But Fannia's lamen- 
 tations filled the house. Even the baby was crying. 
 
 What had happened? 
 
 With a shawl round her, she ran into the corridor. 
 Sebastian's door stood open. In the light of candles, 
 she saw a basin on a table, full of reddened water. 
 Annibale was tearing up a sheet. In a chair, a big 
 pallid torso, half recumbent, smeared with blood. 
 Against one herculean shoulder, Fannia's hands 
 pressed tight, and bright blood trickling out between 
 her fingers, over her wrists. 
 
 Sebastian raised his head. His gaze met Ghir-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 329 
 
 laine's. His eyes lost their blankness in them 
 flared up, for a moment, a fierce light, of bitterness 
 and mockery. 
 
 "Not yet! Go back to bed. This sort of thing's 
 a little too strong for you." 
 
 She found herself in her room again. 
 
 But throughout the night there remained before 
 her the picture of Fannia's strong fingers pressing 
 back that red tide.
 
 CHAPTER XVIH 
 
 NEXT morning, the carabineers were notified of the 
 attack. On the platform, they found one Camorrista, 
 still breathing. In the water, three hundred feet 
 below, the other was bumping gently against the 
 rocks. A rowing-boat put round the island and re- 
 covered this body. The injured assassin was carried 
 down to the village. 
 
 The day following, the Maresciallo requested Se- 
 bastian to present himself for the identification. It 
 appeared that the broad-shouldered ruffian had not 
 long to live. 
 
 Pale, still somewhat light-headed, his left arm 
 bound to his side, Sebastian arrived at the police sta- 
 tion toward noon. This effort had caused him more 
 fatigue and pain than an observer would have sus- 
 pected. A fierce stoicism, a determination to afford 
 no one the pleasure of his suffering, accomplished a 
 sort of miracle in bringing him, with all his old ap- 
 pearance of ponderous formidability, to run this 
 gauntlet. 
 
 It was a day of scorching heat, for summer had at 
 last descended in full force upon Torregiante. The 
 sky resembled a vast brazier. The heights were 
 veiled in yellowish mist. Beneath the sun's rays, 
 the esplanade seemed dissolving in a myriad vibra- 
 tions. But from the black doorways of the houses 
 
 330
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 331 
 
 issued a breath as cold and damp as if from sub- 
 terranean caves. There, in the shadows, faces gath- 
 ered, stolidly morose, almost brutish in their stupid 
 animosity, but stamped, one and all, with a certain 
 look of disappointment. The sympathies of Torre- 
 giante were evidently with the losers. 
 
 The Marshal of carabineers, however, greeted Se- 
 bastian with something like his first friendliness. 
 The Syndic had testified to the display of money 
 before the mountebanks it was clearly a case of 
 attempted murder and robbery. And the fact that 
 Sebastian had worsted two armed desperadoes with 
 his bare hands could not but resuscitate the soldier's 
 admiration. At one moment, the honest fellow 
 seemed on the point of some confession, an explana- 
 tion, possibly, of his late coolness? But abruptly he 
 led the way into the police station. 
 
 The jail was a dim, whitewashed room, with small 
 barred windows close to the vaulted ceiling. In one 
 corner, on a cot, lay the injured Camorrista. Beside 
 him sat the priest. 
 
 Don Vigilio rose, came forward, and took Sebas- 
 tian's hand. His old eyes were full of pain; his per- 
 petual thin smile was tremulous. 
 
 "Ah, my son! This poor victim of temptation! 
 And the other, already gone! What a calamity for 
 you, to have to be the instrument of justice!" 
 
 "Quite so," Sebastian murmured. "But one has 
 very little choice, when a pair of stilettos are against 
 one's ribs. The instinct of self-preservation, you 
 know it's apt to cause rather violent gestures."
 
 332 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 The priest shook his head. 
 
 "The instinct of self-preservation alone would 
 never have helped you. It was God, who stood be- 
 side you in that peril, as in the one before it who 
 turned away the knives, just as He bore you up 
 above the sea. These two poor creatures had finished 
 the tasks He set for them, here below. For you, 
 there are doubtless still many things to do." 
 
 The Marshal touched Sebastian on the arm. They 
 approached the pallet. 
 
 The Camorrista 's rough-hewn visage was more hag- 
 gard than ever, strangely purplish, glistening with 
 moisture. His dull eyes finally opened, and fixed 
 themselves on Sebastian. Then, at recognition of 
 his enemy, he acquired slowly a look of almost un- 
 earthly hatred. A hoarse, rattling whisper broke 
 from his lips: 
 
 "Wait. . . . Among us, it is never finished. . . ." 
 
 And, raising one hand with difficulty from the 
 blanket, he tried to make the sign of menace. But 
 he fell back in a convulsion. 
 
 Said the carabineer: 
 
 "You identify this man as your assailant, Excel- 
 lency?" 
 
 Sebastian roused himself from contemplation of 
 that countenance. 
 
 "Certainly. But as for what I did to him . . . 
 Curious! ... If there were only a physician!" 
 
 "Physician! Eh, I doubt if there's ever been one 
 in Torregiante!" 
 
 Bending down, Sebastian examined the Camor-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 333 
 
 rista's eyes and lips, pulled aside the coverlid from 
 his chest, felt his pulse. Then, straightening himself 
 sharply, he brushed off his hands, with the involun- 
 tary gesture of a man who has touched something 
 he would rather have avoided. To the Marshal: 
 "What symptoms, since you brought him here?" 
 The carabineer recounted them, adding: 
 
 "A kick in the stomach, you see ' 
 
 "A kick in the stomach? Nonsense. ... Is 
 there cholera at Naples now?" 
 
 "Cholera? Why, perhaps, a few cases. . . ." 
 Soldier and priest stared at Sebastian aghast. 
 The latter announced: 
 
 "In my opinion, this man is dying of cholera." 
 There was a long silence. From the damp walls 
 of that cell, something immeasurable, crushing, cold 
 as death, seemed to descend upon them. Yet, 
 through the high, barred windows, the hot breeze 
 bore in the customary nauseous odors of the village, 
 and the sounds of every day the grunting of the 
 lean black pigs, and many children's voices. . . . 
 The Marshal found his tongue. 
 "Cholera! But I have seen plenty of that!" 
 "So have I. And learned that there's more than 
 one kind. This case, I should judge, began abor- 
 tively. If that is so, his injury has developed it. At 
 present he has the physiognomy of a true coleroso. 
 Use your eyes." 
 
 "Cholera!" ejaculated the carabineer, passing his 
 hand across his brow. "But it is impossible! Eh, 
 Padre?"
 
 334 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Surely, surely! God would not permit it, in my 
 Torregiante! These poor, humble creatures! All 
 these little ones, so helpless!" 
 
 Sebastian shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I may be wrong. I advise you, all the same, to 
 isolate this fellow, and burn his clothes. A few 
 days will show. If it's cholera, you'll find out soon 
 enough! This population will be practically wiped 
 out. You know how they live. They'll merely die 
 like flies. . . . Well, Maresciallo? If you've quite 
 finished with me?" 
 
 The soldier pulled himself together. 
 
 "Pass, Excellency," he muttered. 
 
 The trio went out on the esplanade. 
 
 "At any rate," stammered the priest, "this one 
 will soon pass on. I go now to prepare his Viati- 
 cum." 
 
 And turning to Sebastian, he inquired: 
 
 "Are you too tired to walk with me to the church? " 
 
 "I? Not at all!" 
 
 They set out along the water-front, toward the 
 eastern promontory. 
 
 The church, surmounted by its rough bell-tower, 
 stood forth, with the little parish-house, on the out- 
 reaching spine of rock, against the glittering sea. 
 Small, rude of contour, with all its details bespeak- 
 ing slipshod labor and economy of funds, it seemed 
 nevertheless, hi comparison with Torregiante's other 
 edifices, almost imposing. Its arched doorway made 
 a spot of intense black against the blazing walls. On 
 the threshold appeared a little ragged boy. It was
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 335 
 
 the youngster that had first guided Sebastian toward 
 the villa. 
 
 "My acolyte," the priest remarked, absent- 
 mindedly. "An orphan. Maria takes care of him, 
 with alternating cuffs and kisses, after the manner 
 of all natural tyrants. . . . And there she is in 
 person." 
 
 At a window of the parish-house loomed the fat 
 old housekeeper, with her triple chin, her sprouting 
 moles, and toothless gums. She gazed down at 
 Sebastian stonily. Her deep voice bellowed forth: 
 
 "If it's a visitor you're bringing to table, there's 
 not enough to go round!" 
 
 Whereupon, she pulled in the shutters with a 
 bang. 
 
 Don Vigilio flushed. 
 
 "Ah, these islanders of mine! Who ever knows 
 how to take them! Sometimes as courteous as 
 princes. Another day, they shame themselves by 
 their brutality." 
 
 "They dislike me," Sebastian answered, with a 
 short laugh. "And, in this instance, they don't 
 trouble to conceal their feelings. Do you know, if 
 it had been I, instead of those other two, I'm sure 
 the village would have made a/es/a." 
 
 The priest protested, almost with agitation: 
 
 " Never ! Never ! You mustn't think such things. 
 You're strange to them, and simple natures always 
 mistrust what's strange. When I first came here, it 
 was practically the same. Sometimes I said, 'Dear 
 Lord, shall I ever really reach these hearts, at once
 
 336 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 so simple and so complex?' Then, all at once, as if 
 in one day, everything was different. Their faces, as 
 it were, opened to me. Their smiles greeted me 
 the indescribably sweet smiles of the little people. I 
 felt a warm current of love miraculously flowing back 
 and forth, between their souls and mine. How good 
 it was ! My long efforts crowned with happiness ! To 
 feel the love of others in that sensation there's al- 
 most something like experiencing the love of God. 
 And why not, since we're all parts of God? But to 
 receive, one must have given. That's it! Whatever 
 one gives, of good or evil, will be returned eventually, 
 a hundred-fold augmented by that commerce. ..." 
 
 They were before the arched doorway. 
 
 "Enter, my son," said the old man, and with his 
 frail hand gently urged Sebastian into the church. 
 
 A black expanse of pavement was divided into 
 three parts by a double row of stucco pillars, slate- 
 gray in the obscurity. The plaster walls were 
 shrouded in deep shadows: the little chapels ranged 
 against them, two on each side, were almost invisi- 
 ble. But above, the long, narrow windows let in 
 diagonal rays of sunshine, which lost themselves in 
 mid-air against the garish motley of a stained-glass 
 bay, behind the chancel. There a tawdry altar, set 
 with some tallow candles and rosettes of paper 
 flowers, bore up a wooden crucifix, vividly painted, 
 the Christ extraordinarily bestrewn with blood. 
 
 Cool, silent, impregnated with scents of dust, burnt 
 wax, and incense, even this place gave forth that 
 suggestion of solemnity and mystery, of age and un-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 337 
 
 alterable majesty, which in such old countries in- 
 forms the humblest of its kind. Within these por- 
 tals, something of the faith and awe of a myriad 
 departed worshippers seemed redolently embalmed. 
 
 At the door, the old priest took water and crossed 
 himself. When Sebastian failed to follow his ex- 
 ample, Don Vigilio's face fell. But he beckoned the 
 stranger toward a chapel. 
 
 "The likeness of Saint Giosue the Admiral, our 
 patron," he announced. 
 
 Sebastian saw a blackened, primitive painting of a 
 person in religious dress, one hand raised in benedic- 
 tion. The panel was surrounded by an amazing 
 collection of tin hearts, cheap jewelry, and votive 
 pictures in which were portrayed all manner of dis- 
 asters shipwrecks, avalanches, drownings, assas- 
 sinations, death-bed scenes each arrested, just be- 
 fore the fatal moment, by the appearance of the 
 saint in whirling clouds. 
 
 "And who," Sebastian inquired, "was Saint 
 Giosue?" 
 
 "Ah, as for that, they will tell you hereabouts that 
 he was a Norman, a converted Arab, a Roman, even 
 a Carthaginian or a Greek. For while they know 
 nothing of those races that preceded them, and 
 handed down their various traits to them, they love 
 the old names. As a matter of fact, Saint Giosue 
 was a soldier of fortune from abroad, who took ser- 
 vice with Roger the Norman. But he came here, 
 one day, for a certain reason, and thereafter gave 
 up deeds of blood for better works."
 
 338 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "And do you attribute his change of heart to the 
 climate of Torregiante? " 
 
 "It is all written down, my son; and some day 
 you shall read it," Don Vigilio responded, quietly, 
 and led the way toward the high-altar. 
 
 Their footfalls re-echoed. From behind a pillar, 
 the acolyte peered out at them. Halting below the 
 chancel, they contemplated the Crucifix. 
 
 "Well?" asked Don Vigilio at last. 
 
 "Very good, indeed, I should judge, for this lo- 
 cality. For you and me, perhaps, it rather turns the 
 place into a shambles. But I fancy that for these 
 people no less blood would visualize the Passion 
 properly." 
 
 The priest's face brightened. 
 
 "You're right. In Saint Peter's, it would be too 
 terrible. But here it is necessary." 
 
 And, after a pause: 
 
 "Catholicism is so catholic, so various, in its unity! 
 For the sage, these things are awesome symbols. 
 For the illiterate, they must be almost animate reali- 
 ties. Is it not wonderful, that God has provided this 
 way to salvation, which may move through the self- 
 same instruments the intellectual as poignantly as 
 the ignorant?" 
 
 Sebastian glanced curiously at the old man, so 
 different, in his view-point, from the average parish- 
 priest. Perhaps, thought the visitor, such opinions 
 were responsible for his presence in Torregiante? 
 About to ask Don Vigilio where his first church had 
 been, he heard:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 339 
 
 " I was in hopes that there would be something for 
 us to do here together, to-day. But you aren't of the 
 Faith, I take it?" 
 
 "No," said Sebastian, with the shadow of a smile. 
 "I walk in darkness. . . ." 
 
 The words had no sooner left his lips, than, with a 
 slight shock, he realized their truth. He walked in- 
 deed, and had always walked, in darkness! The ex- 
 periences of those others, their spiritual expansion in 
 the radiance of trust and faith, had never come to 
 him, who had been so gluttonous of sensation. And 
 it was with a kind of smothered sullenness, as if at 
 comprehension of an innate inadequacy, that he 
 added: 
 
 "All my life I've tried my best to sample every 
 emotion. But there are a few beyond me. For in- 
 stance, belief hi the intangible, when the tangible is 
 so full of disillusionments." 
 
 "You find the tangible full of disillusionments!" 
 
 The priest laid his hand on Sebastian's. 
 
 "My son, forgive me beforehand, and let me tell 
 you this, religion aside. The world is a mirror. One 
 sees in it only one's reflection. So, one must cleanse 
 the heart, and then the reflection will be bright. . . . 
 In your life, I presume, you've committed certain 
 crimes?" 
 
 "Many, I fear, Padre, from your point of view." 
 
 "And now you have the deaths of two men on 
 your conscience." 
 
 "Those two? They rest there as lightly as if 
 they'd been a couple of mad dogs." 
 
 "You think so now. You think so now.
 
 340 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Shaking his head, he murmured: 
 
 "A terrible thing, to go before God's Judgment- 
 seat all begrimed, when one might so easily go 
 clean!" 
 
 "But even after contrition, confession, and absolu- 
 tion, how should one be really sure that one's suffi- 
 ciently presentable?" 
 
 "Because our blessed Lord Himself has said, 
 1 Whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven 
 them.'" 
 
 "Ah, there we're getting deeper than I'd care to go 
 with you particularly here. . . . One more ques- 
 tion, however. In your opinion, can absolution ever 
 really wipe out the past?" 
 
 Don Vigilio considered, then replied: 
 
 "I shall not answer you quite as I would one of my 
 parishioners. Perhaps not absolution itself wipes 
 out the past, so much as the act of repentance. For 
 when a sinner truly repents his past, in that moment 
 his past is transformed. From all his offences sud- 
 denly the offence falls off; and forthwith they are 
 dignified, ennobled, into the instruments of his sal- 
 vation. What folly men utter, who say the past is 
 unchangeable! Nothing is so easy to change. All 
 the wrongs you've ever done take on the grandeur of 
 such tools as fashion an ineffable masterpiece, in that 
 moment when you kneel and say, from the heart, 
 'Forgive me my trespasses. . . .'" 
 
 In the end, Sebastian held out his hand. 
 
 "You are a good man, Padre." 
 
 "We are all good men, my son. Though some of 
 us aren't yet aware of it. . . ."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 341 
 
 On the church steps, Don Vigitio looked down 
 toward the village. The words escaped him: 
 
 "Cholera, in Torregiante? No, no! I can't be- 
 lieve that, with all respect to your diagnosis. We're 
 too defenceless. And one is never struck, in this 
 world, unless some means of defence exists in him. 
 Or, if it is cholera, then the means of defence un- 
 doubtedly exists. ... Or a purpose would be ac- 
 complished, an end gained, that could not be gained 
 otherwise. . . . Who knows? Who knows?" 
 
 Sebastian left him standing there in the fierce sun- 
 light, gazing down, wrapped in thought, upon his 
 village. 
 
 At the foot of the promontory, the school-master 
 glided to his side. 
 
 Shabby, cadaverous, his sparse mustaches pro- 
 truding, his eyes glistening with a treacherous eager- 
 ness, he looked the starved rat more than ever to-day. 
 Hat in hand, he sidled along beside Sebastian, ex- 
 claiming extravagantly over the bandages, pouring 
 out condolences, showering admiration. With a 
 staccato laugh, he concluded: 
 
 "But at least, that wasn't why you went to 
 church!" 
 
 "No? And why not?" 
 
 "Ah! Ah! Intellectuals have a way of recogniz- 
 ing one another." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Naturally. The intuition of kindred spirits. I 
 was drawn toward your Excellency at once." 
 
 "You flatter me."
 
 342 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "S 'immagini! Immediately I said to myself, 
 'Here is Somebody! An obvious intelligence! Per- 
 haps one of Nietzsche's hard ones ! He would know 
 instinctively, for instance, that the soul is just the 
 emotions plus the intellect. That the theological 
 and metaphysical stages of thought are both obso- 
 lete already. That science is the religion of the fut- 
 ure. But is he a materialist, an agnostic, or an 
 atheist? What does he think of the atomic theory 
 of Democritus? What of Hobbes? Not much of 
 Spinoza, at least, who was called an atheist, though 
 he was, after all, nothing but a pantheist! No mat- 
 ter! How refreshing, a modern mind, here, after 
 such a surfeit of gross, mediaeval bigotry, and super- 
 stition!'" 
 
 This display accomplished, his pointed visage as- 
 sumed a look of puerile satisfaction. He chattered on : 
 
 "Signore, for a year I have famished in this hole! 
 No intercourse for a thinker! Say, no life at all! 
 To what am I reduced? The cafe, speaking before 
 you with all respect, is a pig-pen, full of pigs and I 
 teach their litters trash. But the church, at least, 
 is cool. So I go there to read Voltaire. Eh, that 
 amuses me somewhat to read him there. As you 
 can guess." 
 
 "Have you read much of Voltaire, then?" 
 
 "If I have read much of him! But then, I am a 
 voracious, an omnivorous, reader " 
 
 "Have you, by any chance, reached that passage 
 where he says, 'If there is no God, one must be in- 
 vented?'"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 343 
 
 The school-master's face fell. 
 
 "Voltaire said that? Where? Per Bacco, I must 
 see that for myself!" 
 
 "Don't let me keep you from looking for it." 
 
 "Oh, I prefer to talk with you, Signore!" 
 
 "And I, just at present, prefer to be alone." 
 
 The man stopped short. An ugly gleam showed 
 for a second in his eyes. But, with a wriggle, he 
 stuttered: 
 
 "There I recognize the Superman! Directness, 
 ruthlessness, not fettered by insincere conventions! 
 And I respect it! I admire it! I do homage to it! 
 Another day, then? I live in anticipation." 
 
 He made a low bow, displayed a crooked smile, 
 and went off sideways. 
 
 ' ' Miserable ass ! " growled Sebastian. Then, stand- 
 ing still, he looked round him in whimsical amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Why, devil take him. . . ." 
 
 With a laugh of annoyance, he resumed his home- 
 ward way. 
 
 In the portico, Ghirlaine was standing, with Fan- 
 nia's baby hi her arms. Sebastian halted, to con- 
 template that picture. 
 
 WTien she saw him, her eyes contracted. She 
 seemed about to go indoors. But, as if against her 
 will, her lips parted : 
 
 "How's your shoulder to-day?" 
 
 "Doing famously." 
 
 "And the others?" 
 
 "They won't trouble us."
 
 344 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Shivering, she pressed the baby closer to her 
 breast. He inquired: 
 
 "You've not sighted a steam-boat?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Strange. . . ." 
 
 He entered the portico, sank into a chair, and low- 
 ered his eyelids. 
 
 "You're suffering now?" she asked, reluctantly. 
 
 He smiled grimly to himself. 
 
 "Not sufficiently to cause you any particular 
 pleasure." 
 
 Her face paled. At last, turning quickly, she 
 carried the baby into the house. 
 
 The afternoon dragged out interminably. Night 
 fell, hot, breathless, ominous. Next morning, the 
 acolyte climbed half-way up the hill, cast a letter on 
 the ground, and fled. 
 
 Don Vigilio wrote that the Camorrista was dead. 
 Already the Marshal and one of his carabineers were 
 stricken down. It was cholera. . . . 
 
 Through that day, he sat on the eastern end of the 
 portico, looking down at the village through his 
 binoculars. He was waiting for the storm which, at 
 the coming of such an epidemic, develops, among the 
 ruder peasantry of Italy and Sicily, from blank dis- 
 may to a frenzy of destructive terror. 
 
 Once, in a hill town of Catania, he had seen a 
 cholera mob roll in upon the doctors and the cara- 
 bineers, and tear them limb from limb, because word 
 had gone round that the Government was poisoning 
 the land, in order to thin out a wretched population.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 345 
 
 Now he saw again that mass of ragged furies, from 
 whom nearly all semblance of humanity had been 
 obliterated. But their faces were the faces he had 
 seen scowling at him here, in Torregiante, and it was 
 toward him that all those murderous hands reached 
 out. 
 
 For, if an outbreak came, all their superstitious 
 hatred of him, all their past mistrust and forebodings, 
 would bring them straightway, with the courage of 
 panic-fear and numbers, howling for vengeance, to 
 this hilltop. 
 
 And Ghirlaine! The "wife of the magician!" 
 The "siren," with the "tears of drowned men strung 
 round her neck!" Their savage, fumy minds would 
 attribute this calamity to her no less than to him. 
 They would seek her out with the same fury. For 
 an instant, his imagination brought forth that pict- 
 ure. . . . 
 
 Presently, through the binoculars, he saw a group 
 of men walk out from the cafe, cluster on the espla- 
 nade, and gaze up fixedly toward the villa. 
 
 She was behind him, on the terrace, stooping over 
 the roses, her figure, in white linen, of an exquisite 
 modernity, her profile, against the golden sky, of a 
 beauty rarer and more delicate than Torregiante had 
 ever seen before. 
 
 Across the vivid stretch of flowers, she stared at 
 him, then came quickly toward him. 
 
 "What is it? The ship?" 
 
 "I wish it were." 
 
 When he had told her everything, he handed her 
 the binoculars.
 
 346 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "You can see that they're beginning already to 
 think of us." 
 
 Her arms dropped to her side. An expression of 
 horror slowly gathered in her eyes. She managed to 
 utter: 
 
 "You're armed?" 
 
 "What are a few bullets to a couple of hundred 
 maniacs? For that's what they'll be, when they've 
 worked themselves up to it. ... If it does break 
 loose, you and Fannia and the baby must get off to 
 the temple. I doubt if even the wildest of them 
 would follow you in there. Annibale could go with 
 you." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "I! Do you think I'd show my back to dogs like 
 these, especially nowadays? " 
 
 Her chin rose. Her face was dead-white. But her 
 eyes were burning. And she retorted, in a whisper: 
 
 "I shall stay here." 
 
 He came close to her, black-browed, quivering with 
 anger. But she did not flinch. She achieved the 
 words: 
 
 "Whatever else you may think, you'll find I'm not 
 a coward." 
 
 "Are you mad!" 
 
 "Perhaps," she returned, faintly. And, closing 
 her eyes, she went swaying toward the house. 
 
 He resumed his observation of the village. 
 
 From the esplanade all children had disappeared. 
 The loggias were empty. But round the Grand Cafe 
 of the Sea stood a crowd of men. In the midst of 
 them, flashed the sword-hilts of the two remaining
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 347 
 
 carabineers. The cocked hats moved as if buffeted 
 about. The islanders were beginning to lose patience 
 with authority? 
 
 Out of the eastern sea, the dusk was rising. . . . 
 
 Sebastian called Annibale, and put the case to him. 
 The young man's bronzed, classic visage remained 
 almost impassive. Shrugging his shoulders, he re- 
 marked : 
 
 "Signuri, it may fall out as you think: the Ma- 
 donna will manage that to suit herself. But as for 
 Fannia and my little Ercole, why should they be 
 afraid of their own people? Or why should I? Still, 
 if those fools want you. . . . Eccu: I'll take the 
 Signura to the temple, if she'll let me, and then come 
 back. I eat your bread. I am your man." 
 
 "The man of a. jettatura, of a magician, who has 
 brought the cholera to Torregiante? " 
 
 Annibale smiled strangely, with a smile as if of one 
 waking from a long sleep. He responded, reflect- 
 ively: 
 
 "Eh! More things have come to me up here than 
 in all the years I spent down there, Signuri! There 
 is wisdom, it seems, in the neighborhood of the Old 
 Ones. . . ." 
 
 He brought the rifle-stock, so that Sebastian could 
 fasten the Mauser automatic to it. But the latter 
 pointed to his bandaged arm. In silence, turn 
 about, they scrutinized the esplanade through the 
 glasses, till night rushed in, and Torregiante melted 
 into a greenish mist beneath the stars. 
 
 An hour passed. Out of the shadows:
 
 348 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Signuri, will you eat?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "One meets things better on a full stomach." 
 
 "Then go and fill yours." 
 
 Annibale's rustling footsteps died away. 
 
 Half an hour more. . . . 
 
 On the esplanade, torches were beginning to twin- 
 kle and converge. In their light, he caught, through 
 the glasses, fragmentary, weird glimpses of flitting 
 figures, gesticulating, gathering, scattering, reassem- 
 bling. 
 
 Hark! ... A faint rumor, like the murmur of a 
 breeze through leaves. But the night was breath- 
 less. 
 
 The rumor died away. Yet it soon rose again, in- 
 tensified, at last distinguishable as the uproar of 
 many voices. A baying deep and savage, like the 
 outcry of a ravening pack. 
 
 What was that? The pop of a revolver? 
 
 Annibale came running. Side by side, they lis- 
 tened to that clamor, which rose to them, out of the 
 torch-sprinkled darkness, ever louder.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 IN the villa, at the window of her bedchamber, 
 Ghirlaine, too, was listening. 
 
 She heard the distant uproar. She saw, far be- 
 low, on the beach, as if in an immense black pit, the 
 little flames hurrying together. Undoubtedly, those 
 torches had been kindled to light the way from the 
 village to this headland. It was here, as he had pre- 
 dicted, that the islanders were coming! 
 
 From the doorway behind her sounded the quick 
 slapping of bare feet on tiles. Fannia entered, the 
 baby hugged against her breast. Side by side, the 
 two looked forth at the tossing sparks. 
 
 Down there, among the torches, was taking shape 
 the most dreadful phenomenon that humanity can 
 show the Mob, a monster bereft of mind and heart. 
 And to Ghirlaine it seemed as if, from that abyss, 
 were rising all Sebastian Maure's own ruthlessness 
 and lawlessness, returned to rend him, a hundred- 
 fold augmented, out of the Invisible. . . . 
 
 "They're coming," said Fannia suddenly. 
 
 The torches were pouring down the esplanade, to- 
 ward the ascent. And, through the still night, there 
 floated up a prolonged and formless howl. 
 
 She saw Sebastian approaching, tall, bulky, his 
 bandaged arm dull-gray in the shadows. He came 
 to the window, rested his hand on the sill beside her 
 
 349
 
 350 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 own, and for a moment looked in at her in silence. 
 At last: 
 
 "You've changed your mind?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "You still dream of staying here!" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "In God's name, will you tell me why?" 
 
 At the foot of the slope, the lights were already be- 
 ginning to slip hi among the trees. Her fingers came 
 together, and were desperately interlaced. But she 
 only shook her head again. 
 
 For a time he still stood there, staring at her white 
 face. Her eyes were on the torches, but she felt his 
 burning scrutiny. Yet not for all the world would 
 she have answered that mute question with the truth 
 revealing to him her thought that, if she stood her 
 ground, somehow he might find the force to send that 
 onslaught rolling back upon its tracks. . . . 
 
 She saw him returning slowly to Annibale. 
 
 The young man greeted him with the words: 
 
 "They'll be here in five minutes now, Signuri." 
 
 "Give them ten, the speed of the slowest. Men 
 stick together who trespass on the property of the 
 Old Ones." 
 
 "The ringleaders will probably be old Ilario and 
 Big Paganni. We must get them first. . . . Would 
 you mind, Signuri, taking old Ilario yourself? After 
 all, he's practically my father-in-law, you know." 
 
 "And do you imagine that would stop the rest?" 
 
 For his part, Sebastian knew that this mob, at 
 least, would not recoil so easily. Its units were men
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 351 
 
 accustomed all their lives to homicidal impulses and 
 the issue of the knife. Even in their hours of petty 
 gambling and of love-making, they stood ready at 
 any instant to face death. Their honor consisted in 
 contempt of danger, their standard of manhood in 
 accepting every mortal challenge. In their natures 
 were combined the qualities of remote, diverse an- 
 cestors : they still contained the cruelty of the ancient 
 Carthaginians, the fanatical bravery of the Arabs, 
 the dogged courage of the Roman legions and the 
 Normans. To shoot down a dozen of them would 
 merely make the rest the more determined and fe- 
 rocious. 
 
 The remaining carabineers were probably too much 
 knocked about to outstrip the mob. The old priest 
 could never keep pace with them. The Syndic? 
 Doubtless hiding in his cafe. . . . For the first time 
 in his life, Sebastian cursed the defection of the forces 
 of law and order. 
 
 But the torches were beginning to send red and 
 yellow flashes through the foliage of the upper slope. 
 And the silence of that progress was more ominous 
 than the former uproar. 
 
 " Annibale, get into the house. Bolt the front door 
 and the windows. Stand beside the Signura. Above 
 everything, don't let off that gun. If they seem 
 likely to pass me, carry her out the back door to the 
 temple. Fannia will follow you. By morning, the 
 priest and the police may have them in their senses 
 again. Give her in Don Vigilio's care. Here's my 
 pocket-book. Divide the money into two parts.
 
 352 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 One half for that brat of yours. The other half to 
 take the Signura north. Off with you! You've 
 barely time to barricade." 
 
 Annibale stepped back aghast. 
 
 "You ask me to do that!" 
 
 "I order you to take care of the Signura." 
 
 "And leave you here!" 
 
 "Precisely. There's just one chance, and I can 
 only take it alone. Are you gone? " 
 
 The young man's mouth quivered. He gasped: 
 
 "Signuri! You command me to be a coward?" 
 
 "In Turrigianti, then, it's much braver to let the 
 women be killed?" 
 
 Annibale looked toward the house. In the win- 
 dow, dimly, he saw Ghirlaine and Fannia together, 
 and at Fannia's breast the baby. Tears gushed from 
 his eyes. He uttered a whine, like a distracted ani- 
 7 mal, and beat his deep chest with his clenched fists. 
 & Then he made a wild gesture, thrust out one hand, 
 g-palm down, toward the shifting torch-light, seized 
 Sebastian's hand in a convulsive grip, and ran to- 
 the villa. 
 
 ic door slammed. Almost immediately, from 
 i, there rose a cry of protest. But with a suc- 
 cion of sharp claps the shutters came together. 
 Silence fell. 
 
 Sebastian walked forward to the edge of the hill- 
 top. 
 
 Below him, behind a purplish-black net-work of 
 branches, the woods seemed afire. Here and there, 
 through those interstices, a piercing flame leaped
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 353 
 
 forth, then was quenched by thicker foliage. But 
 among all the taller tree-tops, on the under sides 
 of the stone-pines, up the thick columns of the 
 cypresses, was spreading a glare of smoky crimson. 
 
 He fixed his gaze on a point about a hundred yards 
 below, where the path issued into a sort of clearing. 
 Suddenly, this space was full of torches. Their crude 
 radiance reached forth through the night, and played 
 about him. Beneath them he perceived, as it were, 
 a river of men, flowing upward with incredible swift- 
 ness. A shout rang out : some one had sighted him. 
 And instantly the stillness was ended by a great 
 crash of voices: 
 
 ' ' Jettatura I Poisoner ! Assassin ! ' ' 
 
 Now they came even faster, scrambling, jostling, 
 stumbling, and falling in their haste. The trees once 
 more engulfed them. And that was the last screen 
 between them and their prey. 
 
 At heart he had ever been practically as much a 
 savage as these savages who sought his life. Now, 
 groping desperately for some defence against them, 
 he found hi himself no vestige of that superior moral 
 force by which alone one man in such a situation may 
 triumph over many. He realized his inadequacy 
 maybe he even glimpsed the reason for it. In that 
 case he should have appreciated the sardonic irony 
 of Fate, which one day, inevitably, confronts us with 
 the peril we might have put to rout, if long ago we 
 had not disarmed ourselves. 
 
 He looked up at the blue stars, thinking that what- 
 ever happened they would go on shining. He noted
 
 354 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 certain constellations. The names of them flashed 
 through his mind, with their peculiarities and dis- 
 tances. He remembered using some of them in a 
 romance, as a decoration, and a means of introduc- 
 ing a passage that one critic had called, "A typical 
 instance of his perversity. ..." 
 
 Hector de Chaumont had complimented him on 
 that passage, simpering in a cravat of old-rose silk 
 and white-linen gaiters. Sangallo had sat there silent, 
 pulling at his short black beard. He saw the room, 
 Andreas Romano vitch's, full of glistening books, and 
 porcelain, and silver boxes, and carved furniture. 
 There were three bottles on the table, of vermouth, 
 absinthe, and brandy. Andreas had just mentioned 
 Ghirlaine Bellamy her success at a recent charity 
 bazaar. He had seen her there, behind a counter, 
 beside Princess Betty, clad in an exquisite costume 
 of gray, selling hand-painted calendars to a swarm of 
 fashionably dressed men and women. He recalled 
 her smile, her charming manner with those elbow- 
 ing strangers all excited by their opportunity to 
 treat as saleswomen the members of the Roman 
 aristocracy. He remembered his thought, at that 
 time, "Andreas was right: an uncrowned princess. 
 One who would never find herself amiss in any 
 situation. ..." 
 
 And now she was here, behind him, in this villa 
 and the mob was at his throat! 
 
 From the fringe of trees burst the streaming 
 torches. He heard the panting of a hundred men, 
 the pounding of innumerable feet. All eyes, and
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 355 
 
 teeth, and rags, and leaping knees, they hurled them- 
 selves, like a breaking wave, straight at him. 
 
 Even at that last instant, he asked himself: 
 
 "Will it be knives, or fists and feet?" 
 
 Then, like lightning, a new thought: 
 
 "But it can't be either! For she is there, helpless, 
 except for me. . . . We're not yet done with each 
 other. . . . We're not yet done with countless 
 things. ..." 
 
 Was he himself? Was he not something, a part 
 of something, greater than himself? If not, whence 
 grew this sudden, mysterious influx of strength, wit, 
 and reassurance? This conviction, that such an end 
 could not possibly be intended? 
 
 Motionless, in the glare of the onrushing torches, 
 he awaited the mob. 
 
 Their swarthy faces were distorted wellnigh be- 
 yond recognition. Through dangling hair their eye- 
 balls sent forth sharp flashes. Shirts in ribbons re- 
 vealed chests heaving with fatigue and fury. And 
 the attitudes of all those hurtling legs and arms were 
 extravagant, incredible. Here and there, an arm 
 swung up a club, or brandished a stiletto, as if 
 double-jointed. He saw blackened fingers twisted 
 round the fragment of an oar, the gaps between teeth 
 in a wide-open mouth, the swollen veins of a fore- 
 head, the sweat running down a dusky corded neck. 
 Those visages were strangely different, even in the 
 contortion of their frenzy. Some were revealed 
 vividly as Asiatic, others as African, one here and 
 there displayed the pallid convulsion of the Northern
 
 356 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 berserk. It seemed as though, in this conglomera- 
 tion, that was all Sicilian and yet of many peoples, a 
 universal, not a local, vengeance was being hurled at 
 him. The enmity, personified, of all the world. . . . 
 
 In every mob, before the final onslaught, there 
 comes one instant, however short, of involuntary re- 
 coil, when the wave seems to hang motionless, before 
 the crash. 
 
 So, almost within arm's reach, this wave of mad- 
 men lost speed, swayed, hesitated, and seemed to 
 settle back upon itself, before engulfing him. 
 
 Was it, in this case, his immobility that held them 
 so? Was it then: desire to feed their eyes upon this 
 integral thing that they were going to tear to pieces? 
 Or was it the shock of perceiving on his face a smile? 
 
 A smile! Not of bitter defiance in the face of 
 death: for they could have understood that sort, 
 and disregarded it. A smile such as they had never 
 seen before, that seemed to say only, "What a 
 phenomenon!" 
 
 It was the one look to pierce their frenzy to make 
 them feel that here was one allied to something, or 
 borne up by something, quite beyond their ken. 
 
 His solitary figure, taller apparently than life, 
 stood against the darkness of this hilltop, which 
 had contained for each of them, since childhood, 
 inscrutable and ghastly threats. He seemed, indeed, 
 the evil genius of this place, uncanny in his stillness, 
 inhuman in his look. 
 
 The wave quivered again throughout, but did not 
 
 break - 
 
 Metro Pictures
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 357 
 
 Then, from the depths of the mob, a red, horizon- 
 tal point of flame spat at him five times. The shots 
 flew wide. He saw, behind the film of smoke, a 
 familiar visage. And, in the hush that descended 
 abruptly over all, he said: 
 
 "Big Paganni, I'm afraid you forgot to nick your 
 bullets with a cross." 
 
 It was a tone so sane almost of ironical reproof 
 that it affected even those disordered minds. It drew 
 them back a little way toward reality. It recalled to 
 them that somewhere, at one time or other, they had 
 spoken nearly so. It caused an anticlimax. 
 
 But their egotism surged up in arms against that 
 anticlimax! Just now they had felt themselves to 
 be terrible, they had gloried in that feeling. They 
 had experienced the frightful exultation of the mob, 
 drunk with the knowledge of its strength. And now 
 they resented passionately this depreciation of their 
 ferocity. Their immediate impulse was to regain 
 the prestige they had lost. 
 
 With a growl of gathering volume, they swayed 
 forward. 
 
 Instead of flinching, he began to fix first one and 
 then another with his eyes. His gaze rested on old 
 Ilario 
 
 "Hario, you, at least, should have the common- 
 sense and the authority of age. I see you here well 
 in front. I judge you're somewhat a leader of your 
 fellows. Maybe the rest will agree to let you be 
 their spokesman?" 
 
 Beneath the glitter of ,the smoking torches, the old
 
 358 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 ruffian blinked, threw back his working face, then 
 barked, while shaking his knife before the other's 
 eyes: 
 
 "What we have in our hands speaks well enough 
 for us, assassin!" 
 
 The deep semicircle growled again, and moved 
 closer. Sebastian inquired : 
 
 "So you've come in the interests of the two 
 strangers whom I discouraged from killing me?" 
 
 "Well you know that we've not!" 
 
 Cries echoed this retort: 
 
 "Tell him, then, Ilario! Tell him what he already 
 knows, before we chop him into bait! Give him his 
 crime and his sentence! We know how to do justice,. 
 even to the Devil!" 
 
 "By all means," replied Sebastian, "let's give the 
 crime a name, before the execution. It's on Nino's 
 account, perhaps? For I hear that Nino's disap- 
 peared little Nino, the ex-apprentice to the Ca- 
 morra. But in that case, you would all be related 
 to the Camorra. And that's impossible. You, to 
 dip your hands into such dirty business ! For I know 
 that the men of Turrigianti are at least honest 
 men." 
 
 Old Ilario stared and stared, till this speech had 
 penetrated his mind. At last, he shook himself, and 
 howled: 
 
 "You know what we're here for! The cholera!" 
 
 And fifty voices echoed him with a long hoarse 
 clatter: 
 
 "The cholera, murderer! The cholera, poisoner!
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 359 
 
 Poisoner of clean fields! Assassin of little children! 
 Jettatura ! Magician ! ' ' 
 
 Big Paganni's voice persisted, raving after the 
 others : 
 
 "He gave food to my son! Which he had filled 
 with the poison of the cholera. His heart for me!" 
 
 The empty revolver clicked thrice, then whizzed 
 past Sebastian's head. And new cries: 
 
 "Enough! Enough! Strike, Ilario ! Up under his 
 ribs!" 
 
 And a seething of men, as those behind struggled 
 to get forward, with the ejaculations: 
 
 "One side! Let me through! No one before the 
 others, but all together! None must be cheated of 
 his part!" 
 
 An uproar ensued. The crowd boiled and, as it 
 were, turned inside out. New figures appeared sud- 
 denly in the foreground, glaring, crouching, their 
 countenances strangely elongated by menace, to en- 
 counter his eyes. 
 
 He said: 
 
 "I see. The cholera has come to Turrigianti. 
 And naturally, you want to drive it out. But by 
 yourselves you feel incapable of that. So, since you 
 think I may be able to help you, you turn to me. 
 You come to me with this proposition, ' Either help 
 us to drive out the cholera, or we'll do for you here 
 and now." : 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "But that wasn't necessary. Two of us were 
 drowning in the sea, and men of Turrigianti saved us.
 
 360 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 We came to shore helpless, and Turrigianti took us 
 in. We received your hospitality. We fell in your 
 debt. Yet, when the chance comes for me to try 
 to repay that debt, you misdoubt my willingness to 
 do so. 
 
 "You might have sent one man to say: 'The 
 cholera is here. We have no hope. We shall die 
 like flies, as other villages have died, unless some one 
 comes quickly to our aid. But you have seen many 
 lands, in their health and in their sickness. Do you 
 know something of the mystery of this plague? Can 
 you help us? ' 
 
 "To that one man I would have replied, as I reply 
 now to all of you, with your weapons in your hands : 
 'I will help you. Together we will drive out this 
 cholera."' 
 
 He put out his free hand, with the Sicilian gesture 
 of oath- taking, and repeated: 
 
 "We will drive it out together." 
 
 Their faces were filled with blank amazement. In 
 the expression of all those open mouths and protrud- 
 ing eyes, there was something grotesquely childish. 
 After all, they were children! They had been chil- 
 dren all the while! 
 
 His habitual sense of mastery returned to him. 
 He felt again the exhilaration of power over others. 
 
 But old Ilario commenced to recover. He panted : 
 
 "Sangu di Baccu! And you, who brought it!" 
 
 "You think I brought the cholera? Mai 'cchiuf 
 Ilario, you have more intelligence than that. You 
 know well it was the jugglers from Naples."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 361 
 
 The ancient, dancing on his old feet, both arms 
 raised above his head, screamed in Sebastian's face: 
 
 "Do you suppose nobody has seen you walking 
 through our fields, behind the village, poisoning 
 them!" 
 
 "With what, for the love of God?" 
 
 "How should I know about your magic, accursed 
 magician!" 
 
 "You, who hardly know me, call me that? Why 
 not ask Annibale and Fannia, who happen to know 
 me well? " 
 
 "Those animals! You've bewitched them! You 
 have their bodies and souls, and make of them what 
 you like!" 
 
 Sebastian tapped the old man on the chest. 
 
 "You talk like an imbecile. Are we grown men, 
 or children? Is this rubbish the best thing we can 
 find to wrangle over, when every life on this island 
 is in danger?" 
 
 "Through you," hissed Hario, and, with a snake- 
 like movement, struck at Sebastian with his knife. 
 The latter's hand flashed up and caught the arm of 
 the fisherman in mid-air. Holding the ancient thus, 
 Sebastian turned to the others. He went on, as if 
 nothing had happened: 
 
 "I advise you, if you value your health, to go 
 home. To shut yourselves up, each with his own 
 family. To wash your hands well in hot water. To 
 eat and drink nothing. By sunrise, when I've seen 
 Don Vigilio, I shall be with you. Then we'll begin 
 to fight this cholera.
 
 362 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "That is, if you do as I advise. Otherwise, I shall 
 not be responsible. Your own obstinacy will destroy 
 you, and your wives, and your children, till no one is 
 left in Turrigianti to bury the dead. It's obedience 
 and life, or disobedience and death. Take your 
 choice." 
 
 A groan broke from old Ilario. His knees bent; 
 his muscles cracked; his knife fell from his fingers. 
 Sebastian released him, turned on his heel, and went, 
 without looking back, through the shadows to the 
 villa. 
 
 Annibale unbarred the door. Inside, the lights 
 were all extinguished. Sebastian traversed the black 
 corridor to Ghirlaine's room, and knocked. 
 
 Her low voice answered: 
 
 "Come in." 
 
 He passed the threshold which he had not crossed 
 since that night of tempest and madness. 
 
 Ghirlaine and Fannia drew back from the window, 
 and leaned against the wall. He peered out, through 
 the loop-holes in the shutters. He perceived, on the 
 edge of the hilltop, the dripping torches clustered 
 all together, and beneath them the close-packed 
 heads. A racket of contending voices came to him. 
 Some phrases were distinct: 
 
 "All lies! ... But what he has brought he can 
 be frightened into taking away? ... If we kill him 
 to-night, it goes on. ... Let him lift the spell, then, 
 the son of ten thousand dogs! ..." 
 
 Big Paganni's voice: 
 
 "He gave poisoned food to my son! ..."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 363 
 
 "Is your son sick?" 
 
 "Notyet- 
 
 "Then hold your tongue for the present. He shall 
 make us all safe, or die. Every poisoner has his 
 remedies, to protect himself. ..." 
 
 Sebastian lighted a cigarette, and volunteered: 
 
 "They'll soon be going now." 
 
 At times, some voice rose shrill above the rest in 
 protest: 
 
 "And / say he has duped us! His work is done. 
 As soon as our backs are turned, he and the woman 
 will slip down the cliffs and walk away, over the sea, 
 as they came!" 
 
 "If they could do that, they would have done it 
 while we were climbing. ..." 
 
 And the still room was penetrated by old Ilario's 
 bark: 
 
 "Cowards! To let the net slip, when the fish are 
 in it! I go after him now. Who follows?" 
 
 The crowd parted, and he emerged, with waving 
 arms, and made for the house. The rest stood watch- 
 ing him. When he had come half-way, he halted, 
 looked behind him, and retraced his steps, with a 
 volley of oaths. The others received him with sar- 
 casm: 
 
 " Sicuru! You have no children! ..." 
 
 Sebastian left the window. 
 
 "It's over," he said. 
 
 Crossing the room with dragging feet, Ghirlaine 
 sank upon the bed. He seated himself in the chair. 
 
 Long minutes passed. . . . 
 
 Fannia turned from the window.
 
 364 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Look, Signuri!" 
 
 The torches were gone. Only a faint radiance 
 remained among the tree-tops of the slope. 
 
 Annibale entered with a lighted candle, and set it 
 on the chest of drawers. Then, bending forward, his 
 face hidden behind his arms, he began to weep. In 
 long, shivering sobs, the words escaped him : 
 
 "I am a coward! ... I am a coward! . . . I've 
 hidden behind women's skirts! ..." 
 
 Raising his head, he cast a swimming look at the 
 baby, asleep in Fannia's arms. 
 
 "And my son has been witness of it!" 
 
 Oblivious to Sebastian's involuntary grin, he 
 stumbled into the corridor. But Fannia sped after 
 him, her cry re-echoing: 
 
 "Annibale! Annibale! . . ." 
 
 Sebastian turned to Ghirlaine. 
 
 She was staring at him, her cheeks colorless, her 
 eyes brilliant with the brilliancy of fever. From her 
 countenance all pride and strength had disappeared, 
 and that change was startling. Her beauty, despite 
 its ravagement, was a new beauty infinitely more 
 poignant than the old, as if a veil which had always 
 shrouded it had at last been lifted. 
 
 On the edge of the bed, supported by one arm, her 
 lithe shape seemed sinking backward in surrender to 
 emotional exhaustion. Her hair, transformed into 
 spun gold by the candle-light, her misty, unnaturally 
 shining eyes, her half-parted lips that had never 
 known this enigmatical contour, made her appear 
 like a woman he had never seen before. 
 
 And at that moment he seemed as strange to her
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 365 
 
 as she to him. His clothes, his immediate surround- 
 ings, appeared unspeakably incongruous. That dark 
 countenance, that big figure, should have been 
 framed in iron or in skins in the costume of some 
 other age, to which he really belonged. For did not 
 this modern body hold a spirit straight out of the 
 tumultuous and violent past such a being as those 
 who, once on a time, were wont to grapple joyously 
 with fate at its moment of high strength, and return, 
 victorious, unscathed because of their very contempt 
 of death, to find waiting for them the instinctive wel- 
 come of the ages? 
 
 She seemed for an instant to see him so, and to feel,, 
 in her heart, an infinitely simpler sensation an im- 
 pulse reasonless, reckless, absolutely primitive. . . .. 
 What mad dream was she slipping into? 
 
 All the hushed night seemed waiting for his next 
 utterance. 
 
 He said: 
 
 "I think I, instead of Annibale, have been the 
 coward, to frighten you so for nothing." 
 
 Then, as if he had just realized that they were 
 alone, he stood up. 
 
 " Well, rest assured, that at least is done for. . . . 
 Good-night." 
 
 Her eyes followed him to the door. It came shut 
 behind him. 
 
 And she woke. 
 
 Whom had she been! .
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 HALF an hour later, Don Vigilio reached the villa. 
 
 The climb, and his anxiety, had worn him out. 
 On his way, he had encountered the islanders return- 
 ing, and his denunciation of them had left deep 
 wounds in his soft old heart. Sitting in the portico, 
 like a scant sack of meal inside his rusty cassock, he 
 explained feebly to Sebastian: 
 
 "For after all, my son, it's like beating a horse for 
 taking fright and bolting. God made these poor folk 
 incredibly nervous, under their stolidity. And to- 
 day's developments just finished them." 
 
 Already, besides the carabineers, a fisherman had 
 shown the first symptoms, while two women were 
 prostrated by the "false cholera" that is induced by 
 fright. Sebastian remarked: 
 
 "We must begin as soon as you're able to re- 
 turn." 
 
 "Begin! Without doctors? Without remedies? " 
 
 "There is no specific remedy for cholera. One can 
 only isolate the cases, make a system of hygiene for 
 the rest to follow, and experiment with the various 
 treatments. Diet, friction, hot baths, and so on. 
 Such palliatives as opium, valerianate, calomel, qui- 
 nine, tannin, lactic acid." 
 
 Don Vigilio groaned: 
 
 366
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 367 
 
 "None of those things, not one, in Torregiante!" 
 
 "I must see what I can do myself in the way of 
 lactic acid and tannin. . . . Camphor?" 
 
 The old man raised his shoulders helplessly. But 
 abruptly he started. In a whisper: 
 
 "Under the altar, in the leaden case that contains 
 Saint Giosue's garments! The robes are packed in 
 camphor!" 
 
 "Camphor balls?" 
 
 "No, no, no! Gum camphor! Pure chunks of 
 it!" 
 
 " Good enough. Who shall say that Saint Giosue 
 may not perform new miracles?" 
 
 Don Vigilio nodded hi amazement. 
 
 "You are right," he assented, simply. "Who, in- 
 deed?" He rose to his feet, his frail figure gal- 
 vanized by hope. "It is a reproof to my despair, 
 my lack of faith, my miserable panic!" 
 
 "But camphor alone, you understand, isn't every- 
 thing!" 
 
 "Never mind: it is a sign to begin with. As for 
 the rest, inspiration will surely answer effort. Let 
 us go down now! Let us at least begin! ..." 
 
 They descended the hillside. 
 
 On the slope, they met a carabineer ascending. 
 He was a private, from some far-off northern prov- 
 ince, young, blond, his face disfigured by a half-dry 
 cut. His cocked hat was gone. His smart uniform 
 was torn and dirty. He limped painfully, using his 
 sword-scabbard for a cane. The mob, before start- 
 ing to the headland, had set on him and his com-
 
 368 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 panion savagely. His comrade was in the police 
 station with a broken leg. He, for his part, was 
 struggling up the hill to find out how the villa folk 
 had fared. 
 
 Said Sebastian: 
 
 "You'd best finish your climb, and let my people 
 care for you." 
 
 The youth drew himself up and saluted. His pale 
 face was calm and proud. He did not forget that he 
 was a carabineer, and the last effective representa- 
 tive of law in Torregiante. 
 
 "Since you are safe, I will return with your Excel- 
 lency and the Reverendo." 
 
 Sebastian supporting him with his free arm, they 
 continued down the hill. 
 
 The esplanade was crowded. All the village 
 seemed gathered there, round the little shrines set 
 high hi the corners of the houses, to-night lighted 
 with many tapers, and heaped up with flowers and 
 pinchbeck jewelry. The tiny, flickering flames illu- 
 minated the drawn faces and drooping figures. Ev- 
 ry countenance was stamped with that sense of 
 tragedy which no visage can show more vividly than 
 the Sicilian. 
 
 As the new-comers approached, the islanders drew 
 back, with sullen mutterings. One harpy hi a loggia 
 reached forth her claws and screamed an hysterical 
 imprecation. Don Vigilio looked up at her, smiled 
 gently, and answered, in his thin, quavering voice, 
 that all of them involuntarily associated with the 
 mysteries of birth, death, and immortality:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 369 
 
 "Have patience, my daughter. We are here to 
 help you." 
 
 The woman shrank back. 
 
 Before the Grand Cafe of the Sea, they found the 
 Syndic, brick-red in the lamp-light, his eyes protrud- 
 ing more than ever from confusion, cringing, as it 
 were, behind his walrus's mustache. He began to 
 stammer excuses. He had gone to sleep early in the 
 back of his house. He was a tremendous sleeper. 
 The uproar had not even waked him. If only he had 
 known! 
 
 Sebastian clapped him on the shoulder. 
 
 "Of course. If only you had, you might have 
 passed them half a dozen words of common-sense, 
 and saved them their trip up and down." 
 
 "Ah, Body of Bacchus, it is true they must have 
 been completely mad! A word from me, as you 
 say. ... But, Madrecidda, as any one can tell you, 
 when once I start snoring, they might shoot off 
 cannons. ..." 
 
 They took him with them, still boggling at his ex- 
 planations, toward the parish-house. 
 
 On the way, they came across a lean shadow 
 skulking along beside the house walls. It was the 
 school-master. 
 
 The "starved rat," checked in his endeavor to 
 slink off home, managed to compose his features. 
 Slipping to Sebastian's side, he whispered, as they 
 proceeded: 
 
 "All my felicitations, Excellency. It was tre- 
 mendous!"
 
 370 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "What was tremendous?" 
 
 "Capers your treatment of these pigs! I was 
 there! I didn't make my presence known, because I 
 knew perfectly how it .would turn out. I went along, 
 because I was curious to see the humiliation of igno- 
 rance by intellect. Such a spectacle is so refreshing, 
 so heartening, while we are waiting for the final, great 
 humiliation of ignorance of all these old, worn-out 
 governments and religions! . . . All the same, when 
 you'd turned your back on them, I did my little part. 
 Quite unnecessary, certainly; but I couldn't resist a 
 few additional sarcasms. Perhaps they had their 
 small effect, in hastening those cretini to make up 
 what they call their minds?" 
 
 "Many thanks, I'm sure." 
 
 "Nothing, Excellency! We others, you see! The 
 freemasonry of intellect!" 
 
 They arrived at the parish-house. The Syndic 
 was shouting at the priest, in his effort to make his 
 tale convincing once for all: 
 
 "The whole house will tell you that when once I 
 begin to play the ritirata on my nose, they might 
 kill a pig under my bed. ..." 
 
 The school-master, drawing Sebastian aside, in- 
 quired secretly, with a febrile eagerness: 
 
 "Excellency, may one ask how you plan to get 
 away?" 
 
 Sebastian looked down steadily into those shifty 
 eyes. The fellow, smiling craftily, explained: 
 
 "Of course, I understood all that talk up there! 
 The wool over their eyes, et cetera! But naturally,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 371 
 
 the intellects of the future mustn't run the risk of 
 succumbing to the suicidal squalor of the past. So I 
 thought, when you slip away, we might go together? "" 
 
 Sebastian uttered a short laugh. 
 
 " Signer School-master, no one is going to slip away 
 from Turrigianti till the cholera is finished, or till the 
 cholera has finished us. For you, for Don Vigilio, 
 for the Syndic, and, by chance, for me, the pro- 
 gramme has arranged itself automatically. After 
 you, my friend." 
 
 And he pushed the other, suddenly all limp and 
 pallid, into the parish-house. 
 
 Round the table in the priest's dismal little sitting- 
 room, they came finally to agreement. Sebastian, to- 
 whom the rest deferred instinctively, apportioned the 
 necessary tasks. 
 
 The carabineer was to direct the policing of the 
 wells, and guard the cleanliness of the water-front. 
 The Syndic was to have all rations prepared in his 
 cook-shop, protected from flies, and served out to the 
 village. The school-master was to see that no other 
 food was eaten, and to burn, or disinfect if they came 
 on disinfectants, the belongings of the victims. Se- 
 bastian and Don Vigilio were to isolate and care for 
 the sick, and order the burial of the dead. It was 
 the priest who suggested turning the parish-house 
 into a hospital. 
 
 "For, as a matter of fact," he said, "this is the 
 only house, I'm sure, that they'd consent to be re- 
 moved to." And turning to Sebastian: "Alas, we're 
 going to fight more than cholera! We have against
 
 372 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 us I don't know what lethargy and fatalism! You 
 will see men refuse to take the measures that mean 
 life to them! You will see women try to stop us 
 from doing things they can't understand, to save 
 their children for them ! It's going to be a nightmare ! 
 A nightmare of poor wretches bent on destroying 
 themselves! ..." 
 
 And the struggle which began that night was, in- 
 deed, a nightmare. 
 
 In that squalor and promiscuity of living, the 
 plague spread rapidly. On the second day a day of 
 unprecedented heat and breathlessness the cara- 
 bineer private and two fishermen were dead, while a 
 dozen others had reached their crises. 
 
 Toward evening, a swarm of men and women 
 swept down the esplanade, climbed the eastern prom- 
 ontory, and poured into the church. For two days, 
 their tongues licking the dust, they had prayed to 
 Saint Giosue to save them from this witchcraft, and 
 he had done nothing. The diminutives, terms of en- 
 dearment and supplication, with which they had ad- 
 dressed him hitherto, gave place, hi that frantic rush, 
 to blasphemy and obscenity. In the sacred edifice, 
 packed in a howling mass about the little chapel 
 where his picture hung, they hurled at him their worst 
 abuse, clods of mud, all manner of actual and verbal 
 filth. A rock struck the ancient portrait in the face, 
 split the panel, and knocked it down among the brass 
 candle-sticks and paper flowers of the altar. In- 
 stantly, all was silence, immobility. The rioters 
 stared at their work, as at a frightful omen. Then a
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 373 
 
 woman wailed, and set loose the reaction. More 
 terror-stricken than before, they poured out of the 
 church, with sobs and cries to the Madonna and the 
 Saint for pardon. They scattered, as fast as their 
 legs would carry them, to their houses, and bolted 
 themselves in. 
 
 They refused to come out and get the food pre- 
 pared for them. If it was brought to their doors, 
 they threw down tiles and rocks from the upper 
 windows on the "poisoner and his dupes." Now and 
 then, when the cholera-fighters drew off baffled, a 
 shot followed them, or the cries: 
 
 "Don Vigilio, stand aside! Give us a chance at 
 the big one!" 
 
 For they counted on some sort of magic from 
 Sebastian that would bring them instantaneous relief. 
 This manner of doing revived their worst suspicions. 
 Yet they hardly dared to kill him even now, for fear 
 that with him they would be destroying their last 
 chance. 
 
 In their grimy rooms, with swine and chicken un- 
 derfoot, amid a cloud of flies, they ate green fruit, 
 raw milk, fish caught close to shore. Only the clean 
 vegetables of their terraces they would not touch. 
 But with the wild prodigality of fatalists who see 
 death imminent, they slaughtered and devoured their 
 pigs, which had been rooting in the refuse of the al- 
 leys and the water-front. 
 
 The domiciliary visits ended, more often than not, 
 in miniature riots. The well fought to keep the 
 rescuers from the bedsides of the sick. Argument
 
 374 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 was useless before the stubborn belief, reiterated by 
 screeching voices, that Sebastian wanted to remove 
 the patients in order to finish them at his ease. Even 
 the priest was hustled, his words drowned out by 
 howls: 
 
 "You are old! You are simple! He has fooled 
 you! What do you know!" 
 
 And the women, beside the pallets of their hus- 
 bands, became viragoes, and led on their half-grown 
 children, armed with kitchen-knives and hatchets. 
 When they had been disarmed, the carrying of the 
 terror-stricken invalid to the parish-house was a 
 running battle. 
 
 They had pressed into service some half a dozen 
 young men, who had lived their army-terms in Italy, 
 and realized the stupidity of their fellows. Without 
 such aid, indeed, Sebastian and his co-workers could 
 have accomplished nothing. But they were peril- 
 ously few: for three had been sent off, in a sail-boat, 
 to Sicily in search of help. The rest, however, 
 showed the bravery and obedience of good soldiers. 
 
 As for the school-master, he was practically useless. 
 For two days he pretended to go about his duties. 
 On the third, as he was pulling a mattress from a 
 house to burn it, the inmates set on him with clubs, 
 and beat him black and blue. Groaning, showing 
 his teeth at Sebastian and Don Vigilio, cursing them 
 and the universe at large, he dragged himself home, 
 to the top of a ramshackle building near the parish- 
 house, and stayed there. 
 
 The "walrus," on the other hand, surprised even
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 375 
 
 himself by his devotion. In the depths of his cook- 
 shop, before his long range covered with gaudy, 
 Moorish-looking tiles and set with little charcoal pits, 
 from time to time he stood motionless, to cry: 
 
 "Corpu di Baccu! Am I the Syndic of Turrigi- 
 anti, or a galley-slave?" 
 
 Then he plunged once more to the cooking of food 
 that none but the cholera-fighters, and the invalids 
 in the parish-house, could be brought to touch. 
 And, amid the steam, his fat body, stripped to the 
 waist, was reflected, in its lumbering energy, from a 
 score of copper pots. 
 
 Twice a day, the smoking dishes, of spaghetti, of 
 broth, of barley-gruel, were carried, covered with 
 sterilized linen, to the parish-house. 
 
 There all the rooms were full of pallets, on which 
 the sufferers lay. Immobile on their backs, they 
 turned up to the dim light their bluish visages, sharp- 
 ened, sunken, marked one and all with a half -dreamy 
 conviction of a fatal outcome. The place was calm, 
 with the calmness of a region removed almost be- 
 yond the confines of the natural world. For the 
 patients, at their first seizure, had accepted dissolu- 
 tion as a certainty, while the nurses, who saw the 
 plague spreading despite their hardest efforts, worked 
 on with the quietude of a profound despair. 
 
 Even old Maria, the housekeeper, moved softly, 
 and achieved the miracle of a whisper. And it 
 seemed that day and night that violent-featured, 
 obese old harridan was everywhere, with steaming 
 blankets, bottles, and gentle hands. She took Sebas- 
 tian's orders without resentment. Now and then,
 
 376 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 when they rose together from a bedside, baffled again 
 by death, she said to him, while blinking back the 
 tears from eyes long unused to moisture: 
 
 "Curragiu, Signuri! Next time? ..." 
 
 When a crisis was safely passed, a thrill of hope 
 ran among the fighters. Forthwith, the news was 
 carried from the promontory to the village. But the 
 islanders, glowering down from their loggias at the 
 messenger, replied: 
 
 "A trick! To persuade us we have a chance to 
 live, when once he's got us there!" 
 
 Sometimes, at night, shouting from house to house, 
 they planned an onslaught on the hospital. The 
 sick should be rescued and brought home. The priest 
 was in his dotage; he should be locked up. As for 
 Sebastian, he should be torn to pieces. 
 
 The Syndic came out of the cafe, and roared at 
 them: 
 
 "Imbeciles! It's you who are murdering your 
 own children!" 
 
 Wine-flasks and dishes crashed round him. He 
 retreated into his tunnel. 
 
 In the darkness, on the esplanade, tragic tableaux 
 frequently took shape. A mother lying prostrate on 
 the ground before a niche that held a penny print of 
 the Madonna. A ragged man seated on the pave- 
 ment, groaning in his first seizure, while from all the 
 windows round about his neighbors watched him 
 silently, in horror. Or, to the thin tinkle of a bell, 
 the passing of the Host, to some dwelling so well 
 defended that the sick had not been removed. 
 
 Through the shadows, a point of flame. The lit-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 377 
 
 tie acolyte, in a torn surplice, bell and candle in 
 hand. After him, Don Vigilio, vested, bare-headed, 
 holding before him the Santissinw. His fragile face 
 very old and tired-looking, but exalted, now that 
 he had this Emblem in his hands, by an expression 
 of almost fanatical hope. His pace faltering from 
 weariness, but always recovering its speed. For the 
 soul toward which he was hurrying must not go un- 
 shriven of its offences. 
 
 In the loggias, in the doorways, before the wooden 
 lattices, and the beached sail-boats looming against 
 the stars, the islanders sank down upon their knees, 
 as the Santissimo went by. For the moment, they 
 forgot everything but that symbol of supreme 
 rescue, which Don Vigilio alone could bring to them. 
 
 And, as he returned, perhaps they would call to 
 him, hi altered tones: 
 
 "Take care of yourself, little Padri. We can't 
 spare you. We, too, shall need you presently. . . ." 
 
 Sebastian, also, took the priest to task concerning 
 his exertions. 
 
 "At your age, you know, one can't stand this for- 
 ever, without going under. Now will you leave all 
 this to me for a while, and get a decent rest?" 
 
 Don Vigilio smiled gently. 
 
 "Thank you, my son. I'll take an hour off. I'll 
 go into the church, and celebrate the Mass. That 
 will refresh me more than sleep." 
 
 At the door, he paused to ask: 
 
 "And you? How long do you expect to keep on 
 so?"
 
 378 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Sebastian reflectively crunched a piece of Saint 
 Giosue's camphor, then shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Till the doctors come, I fancy." 
 
 "And you, who haven't my support, are no more 
 afraid than tired?" 
 
 "Afraid ! Of course I am ! Every time I put any- 
 thing into my mouth! Almost as much afraid, I 
 should judge, as the hermit, up yonder. Who, as 
 you may have noticed, jolly well keeps out of it. ... 
 Still, I'm just a trifle less afraid of the cholera than I 
 am of being thought afraid of it." 
 
 But there flashed through his mind the words of 
 Andreas Romanovitch, at the start of the fox-hunt 
 in the Roman Campagna: "Many men sacrifice 
 themselves before the altar of public opinion. ..." 
 
 He recalled that vivid winter day the rolling, 
 golden landscape, the brilliant cavalcade, the sudden 
 rush of hounds and horses, Ghirlaine amid the scud- 
 ding uniforms, her slim, black-clad figure swaying 
 to the rhythm of the gallop. . . . Then the herds- 
 man's shelter, the bench before the hut, the faint 
 scent of leather and orris-root that came to him from 
 her. . . . His return to the city, determined more 
 than ever to possess her, despite all her enmity. .- :* * 
 
 And that determination had brought them, finally, 
 to this! 
 
 Yet he would not have gone back. He would not 
 have avoided one hour of bafflement and remorse. 
 The injuries that he had inflicted on her hung about 
 his neck with an almost insupportable weight, but he 
 could not, even now, have brought himself to lessen
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 379 
 
 them, if in lessening them the memory of all this 
 bitter-sweet intimacy would have to be wiped out. 
 
 Nor, in fact, could he conceive of the possibility of 
 having acted otherwise. The most unbelievable of 
 those hours had for him, at retrospection, the natural- 
 ness of absolute necessity. 
 
 "Padre," he said, aloud, "I begin to believe hi 
 destiny, you know." 
 
 "That is well, my son," the priest answered, 
 quietly. "Always remembering, however, that des- 
 tiny is only another name for opportunity that the 
 final choice invariably remains with us." 
 
 There were hours when the epidemic, so to speak, 
 stood still when crises were lacking, and the work 
 became easier. In such breathing-spells, Sebastian 
 would climb occasionally to the western headland, for 
 a glimpse of the villa, and, perhaps, of her. 
 
 But he would not come near the villa. He kept 
 even Annibale at a distance, while repeating his 
 orders for the regimen of the household. He was 
 determined that there should not be the slightest 
 contact between the headland and the village. 
 
 Then, when he had finished with instructions: 
 
 "AndtheSignura?" 
 
 ' ' A CGusi-accusi so-so. ' ' 
 
 "She talks much?" 
 
 "Not much, Signuri." 
 
 "And how does she spend her time?" 
 
 "Eh! Looking through the glasses, usually. 
 First at the village, then at the sea. At the sea, when 
 ships are in sight."
 
 380 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Ah. At the sea, when ships are in sight. . . . 
 Very well. Arrividirchi, Annibale." 
 
 " Arrividirchi, Signuri," the young man responded, 
 sadly. "And the Madonna go with you, as we pray 
 she may." 
 
 Perhaps, while talking so, he saw her for a moment, 
 in the portico, tall and straight in her white dress, 
 gazing down at him. But she never moved while he 
 was looking at her. Yet, if he turned away for an 
 instant, she was gone. 
 
 Descending from the confines of that pure, inac- 
 cessible place, to the inferno of the cholera town, he 
 would tell himself: 
 
 "What a waste of ingenuity, for theologians to 
 have devised a hell and a heaven so remote!" 
 
 Those days, he had many new thoughts. 
 
 She, too. . . . 
 
 On the headland, she could feel, if she could not 
 see, the full ghastliness and peril of the drama being 
 played below. Cholera! Her imagination painted 
 scenes worse, almost, than reality. She pictured the 
 despair, the agonies of the victims suddenly struck 
 down, the grief of the survivors, overshadowed by an 
 augmented dread. At mid-day, the yellow mist that 
 hung round the village seemed like the emanation 
 of a vast hopelessness and anguish. It spread along 
 the slopes. It lost itself amid the groves. It seemed 
 to be creeping upward toward the heights. She was 
 frightened, as if it contained the infection of its 
 source. And yet, staring down through the haze, 
 she felt a strange impulse, not to recoil, but to de-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 381 
 
 scend to throw herself into the midst of that 
 disaster! 
 
 Her physical safety, her inactivity, shamed her. 
 Her past appeared before her in all its aimlessness. 
 And her many conventional charities seemed like a 
 mockery, now brought into comparison with the 
 charity of those who, down there in the village, were 
 braving death to battle for the lives of others. All 
 the money she had ever given through benevolence, 
 out of her inexhaustible store, could not outweigh one 
 gesture of the shapes she seemed to see beside the 
 cholera beds. She had only given what she had no 
 right to give. 
 
 She remembered Sebastian's words before the 
 temple. "A creature who had always taken every- 
 thing, and really returned nothing." Again the 
 speech sounded in her ears: "You and I a couple 
 of parasites together! ..." 
 
 But to-day he was paying back his debt. To-day, 
 at least in this, he was her superior! 
 
 All her conventional instincts revolted against 
 such thoughts. 
 
 "How should it be otherwise! This is man's 
 work. Such horrors for me? Such creatures, in 
 their most abject states?" 
 
 She was expressing the conviction not only of the 
 women of her kind, but of the men as well that her 
 whole province should be above all contact with 
 material degradation, that any such contact would 
 somehow have depreciated her value. . . . Yet sup- 
 pose that, instead of stooping to such contact, one 
 had to rise!
 
 382 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Presently, however: 
 
 "Why should I have this insane impulse? My 
 life has been prepared for other things!" 
 
 A voice within her seemed to ask: 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 To that challenge, she flung back, as it were from 
 her innermost defences: 
 
 "If for nothing else, at least for the assurance of a 
 superior race!" 
 
 But the voice within replied: 
 
 " What sort of superiority? To your children what 
 legacy of impulse will you offer? . . ." 
 
 She fled to the companionship of Fannia. Still, 
 into their dismal, halting conversations there in- 
 truded the shadow of reproach. This poor woman, 
 with her ragged dress and bare feet, her eagerness 
 for humble service, her dumb devotion, was one of 
 them! 
 
 At times she questioned Fannia, to find out if these 
 urgencies were unique. 
 
 "How do you feel, when you think that down there 
 people are dying?" 
 
 "How should I feel, Signura! Glad it's not usl 
 Afraid for the Signuri. Yes, and for my father 
 too. . . ." 
 
 "If you knew your father had caught it, would 
 you go down?" 
 
 "Go down! Holy Virgin! One's baby, I take 
 it, is worth more than one's father. You may not 
 know that, Signura. But you will, when you have 
 one." 
 
 Ghirlaine took the sleeping infant from Fannia's
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 383 
 
 arms. Holding him against her firm bosom, she 
 touched the little face, and uncurled the tiny fingers. 
 For her, remembering those first hours of his, and her 
 share in them, there was pride in the feeling that in 
 some way he belonged also to her. When she saw 
 him at Fannia's breast, she envied the mother her 
 emotions. She realized that then the peasant- 
 woman was complete, while she, for all her individu- 
 ality and beauty, was not. And at such moments 
 she longed for that completeness, with an intensity 
 she had never known up there, with a fervor that 
 had needed, as it seemed, the fierce influences of 
 nature, on this Isle of Life, to develop so fully. 
 
 She fell to thinking of Fannia's romance. 
 
 Here its lawlessness did not seem reprehensible. 
 The spontaneity of that revolt against all obstacles, 
 the supreme defiance of tradition hereabouts, had 
 the nobility of Nature. The laws of men fell short 
 of this high headland. . . . 
 
 This headland, apart from all the world! Was its 
 isolation ever going to end? 
 
 Where was Sangallo? Why had he not yet fol- 
 lowed that strange letter of his? This suspense, 
 added to the suspense of all the rest! 
 
 Sometimes, from the northern ridge, she descried 
 on the ambiguous horizon a faint thread of smoke. 
 Her heart leaped to her throat. She turned faint. 
 They were coming? 
 
 Beyond the cataclysm of their arrival, her mind 
 could picture nothing. 
 
 But the thread of smoke gradually died away.
 
 384 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 She returned to the villa, all unnerved, exhausted 
 but like a person reprieved from a crisis too tre- 
 mendous to be faced. 
 
 Frequently, amid the blossom-covered labyrinths 
 behind the house, she came on Annibale. The young 
 man would snatch off his torn hat with the gesture of 
 a cavalier. If she was going to the northern side, he 
 would accompany her. He, too, was interested in 
 distant smoke. 
 
 The Camorristi still obsessed him. He was con- 
 vinced that more would come. He explained to her 
 that it was not like them to accept defeat. The 
 vendetta was their dearest point of honor. 
 
 Nodding solemnly, he would repeat: 
 
 "They will surely send again, Signura, when the 
 others fail to return. They will send and send, till 
 Turrigianti swarms with them. But next time, I 
 think, they'll send some one better than the jugglers, 
 as the jugglers were better than Nino. They will 
 honor us ever with a better grade of talent. Eh, 
 after all, a compliment, in its way?" 
 
 On which, straightening himself, and smiling ami- 
 ably, he would add: 
 
 "But don't disturb yourself on that account, Si- 
 gnura ! My master will know how to attend to them, 
 as I shall know how to help him. There is one, with 
 your leave, who was hardly meant to be killed by 
 ordinary people! Or, in my private opinion, by the 
 cholera! Every night I say my prayer for him to 
 Our Lady and the Blessed Saints, that he mayn't be 
 struck down. Yet when I see him again, walking
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 385 
 
 upright, I feel as if I might better have saved my 
 breath to cool my macaroni. To myself I say, ' The 
 cholera! Mai J cchiu! What is that to him?' For, 
 without compliments, he has that look, you know! 
 One can't imagine him lying helpless on a bed, or 
 going to his own funeral!" 
 
 But Ghirlaine, for her part, never glimpsed Se- 
 bastian on the hillside without a sudden tenseness, 
 an instant of giddy relaxation, and the thought, 
 "Again?" That he was still afoot, after all those 
 days of horror, seemed to her miraculous. 
 
 When he looked up toward her, over the cactus- 
 hedges, she imagined his face set hi a bitter smile. 
 She fancied that he was grimly considering the petti- 
 ness of his past infatuation, in comparison with his 
 present business. He wore the old suit of frieze, the 
 old wooden-soled shoes, the shapeless felt hat, of the 
 first days. His face was deeply bronzed. He had 
 lost weight. He seemed like a stranger. 
 
 One morning she noticed that he had discarded his 
 bandages and sling. In talking to Annibale, he made 
 gestures with his left arm. It seemed as well as ever. 
 
 She watched him all the way down the hill-path, 
 through the binoculars. He moved like a man very 
 tired. 
 
 Intently, she followed his progress along the es- 
 planade. A fat fellow came out of the cafe, and ges- 
 ticulated. From the eastern promontory, two young 
 men ran down to join them. The four turned to look 
 out to sea. 
 
 The steam-boat was rounding the headland.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE steam-boat stood off the beach. The two 
 young men rowed Sebastian and the Syndic out to it. 
 From them the captain learned of the cholera in 
 Torregiante. 
 
 Then the fishing-boat, which had gone for help, 
 had not reached Trapani? 
 
 " Signuri, at Trapani we've seen no one from here," 
 the captain answered gravely, from the rail. 
 
 "But it's impossible! They left three days ago!'' 
 
 "Then they've gone on to Palermo. There's some 
 cholera at Palermo. There must be government doc- 
 tors there. No doubt a passing sail-boat told them 
 so." 
 
 "Fools! They could have telegraphed from Tra- 
 pani, and saved two days!" 
 
 "Eh, to be sure! But it takes brains to think. 
 However, I'll send that telegram for you, on my 
 return." 
 
 The captain shouted toward the engine-room: 
 
 "Let us go!" 
 
 And, to the occupants of the rowing-boat: 
 
 "I'm off. This place is infected. If I have com- 
 munication with it, I shall be quarantined from 
 Trapani." 
 
 The steamer was moving. But a man who had 
 
 386
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 387 
 
 been leaning over the rail picked up a valise and 
 made for the ladder. The captain remonstrated 
 violently: 
 
 "You heard what they said? Do you want to 
 catch it, too?" 
 
 "I don't catch things easily," the stranger re- 
 sponded, with a pleasant smile. And descending the 
 ladder, he motioned politely to the rowers. They 
 took him aboard. He sat down beside Sebastian 
 with an apology, and a winning gesture. 
 
 He was perhaps forty years old, tall, swarthy, very- 
 ugly, yet with a certain attractiveness of features 
 that expression which the Italians call simpatica. 
 He looked calm, strong, accustomed to authority. 
 He was fastidiously dressed: his blue flannel suit, silk 
 shirt, flowing tie of foulard, yellow shoes, and panama 
 hat, were the last cry of Neapolitan fashion. On his 
 long fingers glittered some expensive rings, the jew- 
 els principally emeralds, sapphires, and rubies. His 
 magnificence awed the islanders. To Sebastian, his 
 face was vaguely familiar. 
 
 They discussed the cholera. Sebastian informed 
 him, indifferently: 
 
 "The whole place is a pest-house. Those of us 
 who aren't down with it are practically dehumanized. 
 I doubt you'll find your visit either profitable or 
 pleasant?" 
 
 The stranger returned, genially: 
 
 "It isn't a visit of pleasure anyway, Signore. I 
 come to Torregiante to say and hear a lot of disagree- 
 able things, I fear. ... In fact, I've come to visit
 
 388 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 my brother, and persuade him that he's making a 
 fool of himself." 
 
 "Your brother!" ejaculated the Syndic, in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " Exactly. My brother. Whom you probably call 
 the hermit." 
 
 The eyes of the Syndic and the boatmen turned 
 toward the little hut of bowlders, thatched with 
 prickly-pear leaves, high on the eastern ridge then 
 fixed themselves again on the jewelry and fine clothes 
 of this astounding individual. But Sebastian did 
 not cease to watch the stranger's face. Where had 
 he seen it before? 
 
 Suddenly, he recalled an afternoon at Naples, in 
 the Villa Nazionale. Dusk was falling: along the 
 wooded promenade beside the sea long chains of clear 
 white lights were springing forth. The roadways 
 were full of the carriages of the aristocrazia. Through 
 this traffic he, in the shadowy depths of a big limou- 
 sine, was speeding out toward the Scoglio di Frisio, 
 for a gay dinner-party. Beside him sat a pretty 
 woman who knew every one, but whom, in an Anglo- 
 Saxon country, ostensibly nobody would have known. 
 And all at once she had shrunk back, pressed his 
 hand, and cautiously designated a tall horseman, ap- 
 proaching on the bridle-path. "Ecco, caro miol It 
 is Angielo Cristofores, one of the ten chiefs of the 
 Camorra." 
 
 And at this moment, in the rowing-boat before 
 Torregiante, Angielo Cristofores was offering him a 
 cigarette from a gold case set with rubies.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 389 
 
 Sebastian smiled inwardly. 
 
 "These cigarettes are excellent." 
 
 " So glad, Signore." 
 
 And the stranger began to talk, with engaging 
 frankness, about "his brother's foolishness." 
 
 He had been an odd fish from the first, that 
 brother! He had been offered repeated opportuni- 
 ties to enter a highly profitable business. The young 
 simpleton had refused: his leanings were rather to- 
 ward the church. Though where he had got that 
 idea, Heaven only knew! 
 
 "That is, most of his leanings were hi that direc- 
 tion. There were a few that held him back. Or 
 rather, seemed to. In the end, they pushed him 
 into this condition. ..." 
 
 In short, he had become infatuated with a woman 
 who had treated him badly. His illusions destroyed, 
 he had renounced the world. He had, indeed, re- 
 nounced the world "excessively." He had "become 
 a recluse, hi the barest, most remote, God-forsaken 
 spot that he could find. 
 
 "And all that, Signore, for a woman that you or I 
 would be tempted to beat half to death and throw 
 into the street. A foolish baby-face! A voice, to 
 be sure but who can't shake out a song or two? 
 Perhaps you've heard of her, however. She's wrig- 
 gled upward, since then, kicking away the men she 
 climbed over, one by one. I mean Fiammetta 
 Innocenti. You know her, possibly?" 
 
 "I've heard her sing, somewhere or other." 
 
 The rowing-boat grounded on the beach.
 
 390 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Not much, eh? But enough to turn a certain 
 style of man into a donkey. In this case, let's hope 
 not permanently. That's what I'm here to find 
 out." 
 
 The stranger leaped out upon the sand. He was 
 evidently muscular and agile, as well as clever. " But 
 perhaps," thought Sebastian, "it really is his brother. 
 That would account for his coming all this way him- 
 self. Two birds with one stone!" 
 
 Aloud, he said: 
 
 "I wish you all success in your visit, Signore." 
 
 " So kind of you!" 
 
 "There's the place, on the ridge. Say fifteen 
 minutes' climb. For accommodations, I'm sure the 
 Syndic can put you up somewhere. Indeed, his 
 house is the only safe one now. And we can't let 
 anything happen to you in Torregiante." 
 
 "A thousand thanks!" 
 
 The stranger doffed his panama hat, made a sweep- 
 ing bow, and set off, skirting the village, toward the 
 uplands. Sebastian, gazing after him, reflected: 
 
 "Real talent this time, I should say. They begin 
 to flatter me!" 
 
 But in the hours that followed he had small oppor- 
 tunity to think of this new menace. 
 
 The epidemic was rising to its climax. In the 
 moist heat, with the sea undisturbed by any breeze, 
 the noxiousness of the water-front had developed 
 frightfully. And in the infected warrens of the vil- 
 lage, from behind the barred doors, on the terraces 
 screened with poles, driftwood, and scrub, there
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 391 
 
 issued from time to time fresh outbursts, of shrieks 
 and lamentations, that signalled another seizure or 
 another death. 
 
 Old Ilario was down. They carried him on a 
 shutter, glaring like a trapped wolf, to the parish- 
 house. 
 
 The school-master, on sighting the steamer, had 
 scrambled down from his eyry, determined to escape. 
 But at the door, he had fallen with a groan. There 
 they found him, his long, bony legs spread out on the 
 threshold, his head against the second step, and in 
 his eyes blank fright. They put him on the pallet 
 beside old Ilario's, across from the door of the 
 kitchen, where Maria, puffing, wheezing, calling on 
 all manner of saints, was perpetually sterilizing 
 sheets and blankets. 
 
 The Marshal of carabineers, however, was better. 
 That big, ruddy man, with the blonde mustache and 
 girlish skin, was a shadow of his former self, but to- 
 day almost cheerful. When Sebastian approached 
 his bed, his lips parted in a languid smile. In a voice 
 affected by aphonia: 
 
 "How strange, Signore! . . . You have become 
 the law in Torregiante." 
 
 It was true. Since Don Vigilio had collapsed from 
 weariness, Sebastian had become the law in Torre- 
 giante! 
 
 He now directed everything, was everywhere, 
 learned by mistakes, and sometimes evolved a tri- 
 umph from defeat. A new burst of energy had fol- 
 lowed his first lassitude. Now he was moved by that
 
 392 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 reserve of strength which the human organism is not 
 conscious of, till absolute necessity for its use arises. 
 He exulted in his hitherto unguessed capacity for 
 labor and for use. 
 
 The horrors of this conflict left him cold. He felt 
 no active sympathy either with the suffering or the 
 grief. To him it was just a battle, against a force 
 more subtle and ruthless than himself. He had al- 
 ways been a good fighter, and an ardent gambler. 
 And now he was fighting and gambling with the 
 greatest adversary he had ever known. He got a 
 certain grim enjoyment from this war, from his re- 
 sponsibility, and from his slow winning of authority. 
 
 For his authority was growing. The dullest-wit- 
 ted, the most antagonistic, could not help finally per- 
 ceiving his sincerity. When he entered a house, the 
 women no longer sprang at him. The patients, on 
 their way to the hospital, forbore to curse him. 
 Once, a distracted wife, following the stretcher, her 
 cheeks scarred, like an Oriental mourner's, with long 
 scratches from her fingers, cried out: 
 
 "Save my man, then, if you can!" 
 
 For they knew that he had saved some. 
 
 That evening, as the sun was setting in a great 
 whorl of scarlet and amethystine fire, he walked out 
 on the esplanade, looked up at the windows and the 
 loggias, and shouted: 
 
 "People of Turrigianti, you've had a few days, 
 now, of breaking the laws I set for you. All this 
 time you've stood off from me; and you have paid 
 the price. But the laws I made will still save the
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 393 
 
 rest of you. Once more you have the same choice 
 obedience and life, disobedience and death." 
 
 As he departed, he left behind him silence instead 
 of howls. 
 
 At the door of the church, he came on Don Vigilio, 
 afoot again an old wraith that tottered forward 
 with the words: 
 
 "My son, my son, still walking and working! Do 
 you not see that it's God's miracle?" 
 
 "Saint Giosue's camphor is ended," replied Se- 
 bastian, absent-mindedly. 
 
 The priest's face quivered. He stammered: 
 
 "How tired you must be!" 
 
 "Not so much as you'd think." 
 
 "Will you sleep?" 
 
 Sebastian smiled. 
 
 "When you were tired, Padre, the Mass refreshed 
 you. When I am tired, I also have my inspiration." 
 
 He left the promontory, passed through the vil- 
 lage, and ascended the western headland. The villa 
 shone golden in the sunset. 
 
 Up there the air was pure; sweet flowers were 
 blooming thick; a silence, as of a peace glimpsed only 
 in dreams, enveloped everything. The heights, as if 
 floating off amid a radiant mist toward heaven, 
 seemed already to be bearing her away from him 
 forever. He knew now the full value of those hours 
 spent on the headland, when, for all her hatred, and 
 for all his cruelty born of remorse, he had at least 
 been near her. But even that time was ended now. 
 And this separation was a foretaste of the eternal 
 separation that was coming.
 
 394 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 He turned away. Through the woods he climbed 
 to the ruined temple on the northern ridge, entered 
 the narrow door, and struck a match. The lizards 
 scuttled into corners. But the voices of the Old 
 Ones were hushed this evening. Silence enwrapped 
 him, as he contemplated the faint, archaic inscrip- 
 tion high on the wall behind the little altar. 
 
 To reach my altar, that part of you which you have loved best 
 must be destroyed. 
 
 He went out. Lost in thought, he took the cliff- 
 path eastward. He passed the platform where the 
 Camorristi had attacked him. And he remembered 
 Angielo Cristofores. 
 
 Violence! Always violence and the threat of it! 
 Old scenes rose up before him: dazzling snow-peaks 
 with powder-smoke drifting over them; a green lawn 
 at sunrise, and a young man stretched on it, dying 
 from a sword-thrust: burning sands, and the rush 
 of mounted Bedouins the tomb of whose Marabout 
 he had profaned: a strip of lake-shore, the crack of 
 duelling-pistols, a cluster of men hi top-hats, an- 
 other shape that would never stir again. . . . Vio- 
 lence! Always recoiling! 
 
 At the end of the path, on the ridge above the 
 village, he looked toward the hermit's hut. 
 
 Some distance below it, on the rocky slope, two 
 men were talking together. One was the new-comer 
 to Torregiante. The other wore a long brown robe. 
 The hermit. 
 
 Their discussion ended abruptly. The stranger
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 395 
 
 threw up his hand in a violent gesture such as ac- 
 companies an Italian's imprecation, and descended 
 the hillside to the village. The hermit stood motion- 
 less, watching him. At last, his head bent, he began 
 to walk slowly in Sebastian's direction. He entered 
 the groves. 
 
 They met in the clearing where, in other days, 
 Little Paganni had played flute-music to his goats. 
 
 Sebastian saw an emaciated young man, burnt 
 almost black by the sun, with hair and beard brush- 
 ing the wide collar of his faded gown. His lean 
 waist was girt with cord. On his long, narrow feet 
 were sandals. Through his hands slipped the big 
 wooden beads of a coarse rosary. But when he felt 
 the other's gaze, he stopped short, and raised his 
 head. His features were attractive in then: regu- 
 larity, but marred by a dejection that approached 
 stupidity. 
 
 Evidently his first impulse was to turn away. 
 But with an obvious effort, he stood still, bowed, and 
 examined the other with his melancholy eyes. 
 
 In this countenance, Sebastian discerned a cer- 
 tain resemblance to Angielo Cristofores. The hermit 
 was nearly handsome. The other was almost gro- 
 tesquely ugly. Yet both showed traces of the same 
 peculiar charm which, in this case, unhappiness, and, 
 in the other, no doubt, association, had somewhat 
 obscured. And Sebastian's interest, in seeing before 
 him one more man whom the Innocenti had wrecked, 
 was superseded by a larger curiosity, regarding these 
 strange brothers.
 
 396 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 What was their past their birth and education? 
 The forces that had made one a chief of the Camorra 
 had turned the other, of the same flesh and blood, 
 into a bead-telling devotee. Still, in the beginning, 
 must they not have been very like? 
 
 And the conviction came to him that, in spite of 
 all appearances, they were identical, even to-day 
 and that he was identical with both of them. In 
 him, too, was the capacity for all their differing emo- 
 tions and performances! And, for an instant, he 
 seemed to see beyond the future and the past, to find 
 himself a creature of infinite variety, to perceive 
 himself, in retrospection and anticipation, moved by 
 all the influences that had ever moved humanity. 
 In that moment, for the first time in his life, he felt 
 himself to be part of an immeasurable whole, which 
 was forever struggling to be separate, and individual, 
 yet never could accomplish separation. 
 
 That effort toward separation! It was that, per- 
 haps, which caused all the anguish of humanity? . . . 
 At least, had it not been the cause of all his 
 anguish? 
 
 But this moment of perception, or imagination, 
 ended as swiftly as it had begun. Nevertheless, he 
 remained silent, amazed that such thoughts had 
 come to him. 
 
 Finally, smiling, he asked the brown-clad man: 
 
 "And what do you think of it?" 
 
 "Of what, Signore," the other returned, without 
 surprise. 
 
 "Are we related also, you and I?"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 397 
 
 The recluse regarded Sebastian thoughtfully, then 
 responded: 
 
 "But why not? Since we have one Father." 
 
 The banality of this reply disappointed Sebastian. 
 He had expected something more original, from so 
 unusual a hermit. He tried again: 
 
 "But our performances at least you won't find 
 much family resemblance between them?" 
 
 "Between our performances, Signore? Why not? 
 If they aren't alike at this moment, they have been, 
 and they will be again. And at last they must be, 
 for good and all. Since everything, in the end, must 
 be identical." 
 
 This was slightly better. 
 
 11 Per Bacco! Universal monotony, eh?" 
 
 "Why not say, universal harmony?" 
 
 A pause. At last, Sebastian, with a flicker of his 
 old maliciousness, inquired: 
 
 "You haven't always had these ideas, I take it?" 
 
 "Perhaps only since I've been here." He added, 
 simply: "I think God has told them to me, in the 
 silence." 
 
 "Ah. It's in the silence that God speaks?" 
 
 " God speaks everywhere, at all tunes. But it's in 
 the silence that one hears him." 
 
 "Has God told you also, by any chance, that your 
 other relatives, the villagers down yonder, are dying 
 right and left of cholera?" 
 
 "My brother has just told me that. I supposed 
 that something had happened. They used to bring 
 up food occasionally to my hut. Though that wasn't
 
 398 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 necessary, as I had my little garden-patch. Still, 
 they enjoyed doing it. But some days ago they 
 stopped. However, my mind was otherwise engaged. 
 I soon forgot to miss them." 
 
 Sabastian uttered a dry laugh. 
 
 " On my word, you take it coolly enough ! It's not 
 occurred to you, I presume, to wander down and 
 lend a hand?" 
 
 The hermit met that smile with composure. 
 
 " It is the law of this world and the next, Signore, 
 that every man must try to save himself." His lips 
 contracted painfully. "And before dying of the 
 cholera, or any other thing, I should like to feel that 
 I had saved myself." 
 
 "But I should have thought that you, at least, 
 were all settled on that score!" 
 
 The recluse turned his mournful eyes toward the 
 lower slope, where Angielo Cristofores had disap- 
 peared. 
 
 "Not yet, Signore." 
 
 And for an instant his face was the field of two in- 
 tense desires in conflict, the old rising up against the 
 new. . . . Sebastian, while descending to the vil- 
 lage, still saw that look. 
 
 Where had he seen it before? In the face of An- 
 dreas Romanovitch? No, elsewhere also. . . . More 
 recently. . . . 
 
 In a mirror! . . . 
 
 On the esplanade, he met the Syndic, and de- 
 manded : 
 
 "Any thing fresh?"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 399 
 
 "Eh! Certainly! Another house infected. One 
 of the Paganni brats is down.?' A n 
 
 "Which?" 
 
 "The Little Paganni. My goatherd sangui- 
 nacciu!" 
 
 Though Sebastian did not move, the Syndic called 
 out sharply: 
 
 "Hold fast! Are you ill yourself, Signuri?" 
 
 He shook off the Syndic's hand. He started run- 
 ning toward a dilapidated hovel in the last alleyway, 
 at the western extremity of the esplanade Paganni's 
 house. 
 
 And from the edge of the hilltop, Ghirlaine, looking 
 down through the binoculars, saw him disappear into 
 that alley. 
 
 She could guess at least the purport of the fat 
 islander's message, and the reason for Sebastian's 
 haste. A new case had developed. He had gone to 
 the rescue. 
 
 And she wondered: "Is this the man I knew up 
 there, in that other world?" But perhaps up there 
 and even here she had not known him? 
 
 Twilight drew smoky veils across the hollows. 
 The village roofs, changing slowly from rust-color to 
 rose, floated in a void of vaporous black. On the 
 eastern promontory, the bell-tower of the church 
 soon looked like a charred shaft whose conflagration 
 was dying gradually at its top. But the heights were 
 still aflame! And now the contrast between the ex- 
 tinguished lowlands and the peaks was as moving 
 as the difference between death and life.
 
 400 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 The light faded from the sky. The shadows crept 
 up the wooded slopes. Again they seemed to be 
 reaching out for her. But this time they were striv- 
 ing to bring her not the infection of the village, but 
 something else a mysterious influence with which 
 the lowlands had impregnated them? 
 
 All at once, she felt afraid. Danger was in those 
 shadows! She drew back. She was on the point of 
 fleeing to the house. But, as she turned, she was 
 struck motionless. Close below her, amid the dusky 
 foliage, stood a stranger. 
 
 Tall, dark-visaged, amazing hi his foppish suit of 
 flannels, he removed his hat with a flourish that made 
 his rings flash hi the expiring light. She heard a 
 voice, well modulated, excessively polite, almost ca- 
 ressing in its amiability : 
 
 "Per placer e, gentilissima Signora " 
 
 He stopped, regarded her face, then went on hi 
 French: 
 
 " May I beg you to tell me if Monsieur is at home? " 
 
 Her heart was pounding violently. It did not 
 occur to her that this might be an emissary of San- 
 gallo's. If he had been that, her intuition would not 
 have filled her with such terror? 
 
 For everything about the stranger terrified her. 
 The genial smile that she discerned on his dim face 
 made her catch her breath. Even his fastidious at- 
 tire sickened her with an unfathomable dread. 
 
 Where was Annibale? She remembered that An- 
 nibale had climbed down the northern cliffs to draw 
 his nets.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 401 
 
 Her voice uttered the words: 
 
 "His servant is close by, in the house, Monsieur, 
 if you wish to send him a message." 
 
 The stranger smiled more amiably than before. 
 She was sure that he knew not only of Sebastian's 
 absence, but also of Annibale's. 
 
 "Another time, Madame." 
 
 His glance went past her, took in the villa, re- 
 turned to fix itself on her face and figure. His 
 smile became rather stiff. He did not move but 
 she had a shock as if he had laid his hands upon her. 
 
 "Another time, Madame. ..." 
 
 His voice was slightly hoarse. And in his eyes 
 appeared and disappeared a vivid gleam, of mingled 
 menace and cupidity too strong to be concealed. 
 
 He bowed deeply, and was gone without a sound. 
 
 Annibale's words recurred to her: "More will 
 come, Signura. They will send and send. ..." 
 
 She found herself in the villa. In her bedchamber, 
 she reached out of the window, to draw the shutters 
 together. But she paused, to gaze down once more 
 toward the village. 
 
 Suddenly she snatched up a scarf, wrapped it round 
 her shoulders, and slipped from the house. On the 
 edge of the hill, she wavered. Then with a distracted 
 gesture she plunged down the path. The blackness 
 of the woods engulfed her. 
 
 The path was rough. Roots and sharp stones 
 bruised her feet through the thin soles of her slippers. 
 Branches and brambles tore at the flimsy gown she 
 wore, and whipped across her face. But now she was
 
 402 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 running, oblivious to pain, with only the one thought : 
 "I must be first!" 
 
 The trees thinned. The slope, strewn only by 
 pale bowlders now, stretched before her straight to 
 the village. She sped onward. A red moon was ris- 
 ing. She saw the outlying hovels, strange hi that un- 
 natural radiance, all with blind windows, still as the 
 dwellings of the dead. 
 
 She was on the esplanade. The darkness, the 
 silence, the emptiness of that once busy place be- 
 wildered her. She strove to remember the alleyway 
 into which Sebastian had disappeared. But the al- 
 leyways all seemed alike. And from each of them 
 issued the same pestilential odors. 
 
 "And it's been in such a place. . . ." 
 
 Two men were approaching through the shadows, 
 walking with measured steps, carrying between them 
 something on a stretcher. Behind them stumbled 
 another, two mattocks over his shoulder. 
 
 With a gasp, she shrank back against a wall. But, 
 as the third passed her, she swayed forward, and 
 caught him by the sleeve. 
 
 "The Signuri Where is the Signuri " 
 
 The man started violently. His mattocks clat- 
 tered on the stones. He jumped back, and crossed 
 himself. 
 
 Then the lantern of a street-shrine revealed to him 
 that this wild-eyed being, in her slim whiteness, with 
 the glittering veil and flowing golden hair, was not 
 the Angel of Death. His face darkened with shame. 
 He snatched up the mattocks. In harsh tones :
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 403 
 
 "Eccul" 
 
 He pointed behind her. 
 
 "Paganni's house. The second door." 
 
 She entered the alley. 
 
 Stifling, noisome, the very air of it seemed to her 
 impregnated with mortality. "I shall die of this," 
 she told herself. "I am going toward death!" In 
 the gloom, the two men and their burden still hov- 
 ered before her eyes, an appalling vision. She had a 
 feeling that they had not gone on that they were 
 waiting, at the mouth of this pit, for her also. 
 
 She laid her hand upon the door-latch. But there 
 was still time to go back. . . . 
 
 The door, as if of its own accord, swung open. A 
 stream of candle-light gushed out, enveloped her, 
 and drew her forward. 
 
 She saw a room of indescribable squalor. In a cor- 
 ner, savage, grief-stricken faces. A wrecked bed- 
 stead, and on the pillow a little thin face with fixed 
 eyes and open mouth. By the bed, Sebastian. The 
 expression he wore bewildered her. Was it really he? 
 
 He looked up and saw her. Staring, perfectly pal- 
 lid, he rose slowly to his feet. 
 
 "You!" 
 
 Leaning against the door: 
 
 "The Camorristi again. . . . Another. .. . ." 
 
 But everything was swimming in a mist.
 
 CHAPTER XXH 
 
 Ghirlaine found herself sitting on a broken stool 
 beside the door. Before her stood Sebastian, his 
 figure half blotting out the squalid little room the 
 bed on which the sick child lay motionless, the corners 
 encumbered with fishing-nets and oars, the inner 
 doorway, framing the uncouth, startled faces of the 
 Paganni family. His bulk seemed to be trying to 
 conceal that scene from her. 
 
 "You must get out of here. Everything in this 
 place is dangerous. As for me " 
 
 A caricature of his old sardonic smile appeared. 
 
 "As for me, I've never been a more impossible 
 associate than I am at present." 
 
 She did not move. He went on, still calm exter- 
 nally, but with a sort of smothered exasperation: 
 
 "What are you here for? On the hill you were 
 safe you might have been a thousand miles away 
 from any cholera. You must be mad!" 
 
 She returned weakly: 
 
 "A man came to the villa. A stranger." 
 
 Sebastian made an angry gesture. 
 
 "I know. The new Camorrista. But he's after 
 me, not you." 
 
 She remembered vividly that visitor's last look. 
 She knew that whatever might have been his first 
 
 404
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 405 
 
 intentions, now, since he had seen her, he was after 
 her as well. But was it that which had brought her 
 down into the cholera? Sebastian's retort was like 
 a blow to her. 
 
 She asked herself, "What am I here for, indeed!" 
 She was ready to sink into the ground with shame. 
 But with an effort she looked him steadily in the face. 
 And, finally, that he should never dream the truth, 
 she uttered: 
 
 "There was something about him that terrified me. 
 I felt myself in danger. And Annibale was down the 
 cliffs. . . ." 
 
 He gave her a long stare. His cheeks grew darker, 
 his eyeballs were suffused with blood. 
 
 "So, that's it, eh?" 
 
 He glanced out toward the alley. He made 
 a movement, perhaps involuntary, as if to leave 
 the house. But he recovered himself, and turned 
 quickly to the bed. 
 
 There had reached him from the bed a strange, 
 thin gasp. 
 
 Under the ragged coverlid, the child's chest was 
 heaving. The little mouth was wider open, reaching 
 for more air. A fresh paroxysm was beginning. 
 
 In Sicilian, to the watchers in the doorway: 
 
 "Hot blankets! Move sharp! You, Paganni, 
 lend a hand here. Pass me that bottle." 
 
 The mother, a woman of forty, already heavily 
 wrinkled, her coarse black hair streaming down about 
 her haggard cheeks, disappeared with a sharp cry 
 into the adjoining room. The father, his long, Ara-
 
 406 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 bian features alive for once, sprang to the bedside. 
 In the doorway, little Giacinta, clinging to the jamb, 
 began to wail afresh, while, in the other room, to a 
 tremendous clatter of pots, a baby set up its howl. 
 
 Sebastian ejaculated: 
 
 "Body of God, Paganni, are those children still 
 here? Two hours ago I told you to take them to the 
 Syndic. You might as well cut their throats and 
 have done!" 
 
 Big Paganni raised his head. His features stiff- 
 ened. His eyes showed the dumb resignation of a 
 beast. 
 
 " What difference? In this house we're all as good 
 as dead, already." 
 
 The mother appeared in the doorway with steam- 
 ing blankets. Sebastian snatched them from her 
 arms. 
 
 The coverlid was whipped back. One saw for an 
 instant the small, blotched body, rigid, but shaken 
 by tremors. Then, swiftly, with the deftness of 
 much practice, Sebastian swathed the little shape 
 from chin to feet in the hot bedclothes. Only the 
 face remained uncovered the pitiable childish face, 
 with temples sunken, with nose so sharpened as to 
 give an uncanny impression of maturity, with eyes 
 quite motionless, oblivious to all about them. 
 
 But Sebastian, his hands working rapidly, was 
 muttering to himself: 
 
 "This devilish fixity of the pupils! But no com- 
 plete coma, yet, at least." 
 
 He fumbled amid the blankets, felt the boy's feet
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 407 
 
 and hands, touched the tongue, emptied a spoonful 
 of lemon-water into the open mouth. 
 
 "However, if this reaction is irregular, too. . . ." 
 
 His fingers on Little'Paganni's pulse, he looked up 
 absent-mindedly. His eyes encountered Ghirlaine's. 
 And she realized that she had been forgotten. 
 
 Across the bed, in the hush of that perilous and 
 wretched room, there took place a swift crossing of 
 looks and words a duel perhaps more pregnant than 
 all the rest: 
 
 "Why are you still here?" 
 
 "Because I'm afraid to go." 
 
 "You had courage enough to come." 
 
 "Perhaps. But not to go back. . . ." 
 
 "Do you understand the danger you're running 
 here?" " 
 
 "I think so. I prefer it to the other. . . ." 
 
 "You mean the Camorrista?" 
 
 " Of course " 
 
 She smiled, as grown persons smile at children 
 who have no means of grasping certain thoughts. 
 
 He said: 
 
 "As soon as I can, I'll get a trustworthy man to 
 take you home." 
 
 She rose to her feet. White-clad, the shining scarf 
 falling from her shoulders, her hair flashing in the 
 candle-light, she seemed like a supernatural visitor 
 to this hovel of despair. With a slow, resolute move- 
 ment of her pure body, she advanced, and stood be- 
 side the cholera-bed. 
 
 Looking down at the small face between them on
 
 408 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 the pillow, she put out her hand the most exquisite 
 hand that he had ever seen and laid it softly on 
 Little Paganni's brow. 
 
 "You must tell me what to do. I am so ignorant 
 of suffering, and its relief." 
 
 She stared round her at the room. 
 
 "Indeed, of everything. ..." 
 
 The slightest flush stained her throat. She con- 
 cluded: 
 
 "But now I shall begin to learn." 
 
 Once again, with set jaws, he began to count the 
 patient's pulse. \Vhen he had finished, harshly: 
 
 "I shall want more hot blankets at once. Agata, 
 take the Signura with you. She is going to help us 
 make your little fellow well again." 
 
 The mother peered up into Ghirlaine's face. 
 Her eyes shone with hope. She whispered : 
 
 "Ai! If it is not the Madonna, then the Madonna 
 has sent her!" 
 
 And backing before that shining stranger, as if 
 before a vision, she led the way into the other room. 
 Sebastian turned again to Little Paganni. And the 
 struggle recommenced. 
 
 Through it all she moved like one in a dream, 
 though quick to grasp the meaning of his orders, and 
 to fulfil them. She gazed on the working of the vast, 
 apparently malignant force that strove against them 
 on its progress, its momentary bafflement, its ter- 
 rible persistence. Such physical ravagement she had 
 never before imagined. This frail little creature, so 
 helpless, seemed given over, in his every fibre, as a
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 409 
 
 prey to death. And his defence, despite its ardor, 
 how primitive, how inadequate in its instruments! 
 She would have been utterly hopeless, but for Se- 
 bastian's face the face of a man who will not own 
 defeat. 
 
 But to-night Sebastian was not fighting for the 
 mere sake of winning. He was fighting for the life of 
 a child whose beauty and naturalness had touched 
 his heart, who had been the first to wake in him the 
 instinct of self -perpetuation. 
 
 So he fought as he had not fought before in Tor- 
 regiante. And at last, soon after midnight, there 
 entered into that combat the first vague premonition 
 of victory. 
 
 Little Paganni's skin grew moist. His eyes lost 
 something of their immobility. His paroxysms be- 
 came less intense. His feet and hands ceased to feel 
 ice-cold. Even his pulse-beat was more nearly 
 regular. 
 
 "This tune, a good reaction!" 
 
 Agata, the mother, knelt and prayed. Her large, 
 coarse lips moved tremulously. Her gaze was fixed 
 with frightful fervor on the shelf, high against the 
 wall, that held the inevitable battered image of the 
 Virgin. Big Paganni, seated on the floor, let his 
 head sink forward toward his ragged knees. Even 
 his battered hands, pendent and quivering, looked 
 exhausted. He was like a foundered animal. 
 
 In the other room, the children were asleep. 
 
 Ghirlaine contemplated the setting of this drama. 
 No place could well have been more wretched or
 
 410 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 begrimed. Every article in the room, and on the 
 backs of its habitual occupants, was a wreck. The 
 makeshifts of this household were infinitely pathetic 
 to her. She had never imagined such poverty. It 
 seemed incredible that human beings should be re- 
 duced to live so, and yet so ardently desire to cling 
 to life, and to preserve their offspring to it. 
 
 She examined the faces and attitudes of the par- 
 ents. Those hardly seemed to her the features, and 
 the poses, of real people. There was a degree of 
 physical abasement below which her full comprehen- 
 sion could not plunge. 
 
 But she felt that such existences somehow brought 
 home an immeasurable shame to her. Or, at least, 
 to the class of which she was a part? 
 
 For these poor creatures ever to rise above them- 
 selves would require centuries on centuries of evolu- 
 tion. But if those above them helped them? 
 
 Her gaze returned to Sebastian. She considered 
 his efforts of this night, of all the nights and days 
 since the cholera had come to Torregiante. She re- 
 called him as she had known him up there, in France, 
 in Rome, and as she had previously known of him 
 a notorious figure infinitely worse than useless, 
 an intellect devoted to destruction and perversity. 
 Sangallo's words returned to her, "If only that dead 
 soul of his were resurrected!" 
 
 Had that miracle not at least begun? 
 
 If it should continue? With that extraordinary 
 force and keenness preserved from self-destruction, 
 and turned toward different ends, what might he not
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 411 
 
 do, in this world where so little, after all, had yet 
 been done? 
 
 She forgot the child before her, her own peril, and 
 stricken Torregiante. Her thoughts reached for- 
 ward, through the present darkness, toward the 
 future, as though toward a unique and splendid 
 dawn. . . . 
 
 The latch clicked. In the light of the guttering 
 candles, a young man's stolid face appeared. He 
 touched his hat, with a slouchy imitation of a mili- 
 tary salute. 
 
 "Excellency, you're wanted at the parish-house." 
 
 Sebastian rose, examined Little Paganni, and 
 turned to Ghirlaine. 
 
 "Will you let this man take you to the villa 
 now?" 
 
 "Who would watch the child, then, while you're 
 away?" 
 
 He regarded her for a time, then said, impassively: 
 
 "If the spasms return, you know by this time what 
 to do. When he seems to need nourishment, give 
 him some white of egg beaten up with water. The 
 chicken-coop is under the bed." 
 
 He hesitated, and added: 
 
 "I needn't remind you again of the danger. . . ." 
 
 She heard his foot-falls in the alleyway, dimin- 
 ishing slowly. 
 
 Beneath the red moon, Sebastian walked along 
 the esplanade toward the parish-house. Beside him 
 went the messenger, knocking his wooden-soled 
 shoes against the mooring-rings.
 
 412 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 The windows and the loggias were dark. The 
 fishing-boats, drawn up on the strand, seemed like 
 the abandoned fleet of men who would never return. 
 In the silence, the noise of the four shoe-soles re- 
 echoed from the dim house-walls. The messenger 
 commenced to discuss the last man he had helped 
 to bury. That had been the post-master. 
 
 "Eh, Signuri, but Annibale will laugh! It was the 
 post-master, you know, who wanted to marry Fan- 
 nia." 
 
 Sebastian returned, wearily: 
 
 "A creature like Fannia would have made two 
 wives for that little fellow." 
 
 "He was a short specimen, for a fact. He saved 
 us the weight of several spadefuls may his feet be 
 cool in Purgatory. . . . Have you noticed the moon 
 to-night, Excellency? It looks as if it had been 
 dipped in blood. That means a fattu di sangui a 
 murder." 
 
 "We're having rather enough mortality, I think, 
 as it is." 
 
 "Pri Baccu! Wait till the doctors come ! They'll 
 show us what dead men look like, will the doctors!" 
 
 But Sebastian's thoughts had returned to the room 
 he had just left, and her face, as he had seen it at 
 their parting. 
 
 They passed the Grand Cafe of the Sea. In the 
 dark doorway, a man was lounging. He flicked the 
 ashes from a cigarette: and the red light in the sky 
 sent flashes from his finger-rings. 
 
 Sebastian halted. For an instant, he nearly lost
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 413 
 
 his self-control. He had an inclination to draw the 
 pistol from his pocket and empty it into the body of 
 the Camorrista. But he remembered the night of 
 Saint Giosue's/esfo, the storm, her room, a long knife 
 pressed against that perfect breast. ... A low 
 laugh, of self-contempt, escaped him. Should one 
 kill another for impulses identical with one's own? 
 
 "Good-evening, Signore," said Sebastian. 
 
 The stranger instantly made a wide flourish with 
 his panama hat. 
 
 "Good-evening to you, Signore! Not too gay, 
 these days, Torregiante, eh?" 
 
 "No, not too gay." 
 
 "I presume you're rather busy just now?" 
 
 "Somewhat." 
 
 The stranger was silent for a time. Then, suavely : 
 
 "Well, Signore, good-night, and take good care 
 of yourself." 
 
 ' ' Good-night, Signore. Good repose. ' ' 
 
 The eastern promontory grew distinct before them. 
 The church-tower, bathed in the unnatural radiance 
 of the night, rose behind the parish-house softly 
 alight at every window. On the threshold Don 
 Vigilio met him. 
 
 "Well, my son, it's still another hopeless case." 
 
 "Oldllario?" 
 
 "No, he is better. The school-master." 
 
 Sebastian entered. The familiar atmosphere, of 
 concentrated suffering and terror, enveloped him. 
 
 He passed through the kitchen. There Maria was 
 sprawled over a chair asleep, her triple chin sagging,
 
 414 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 her hands, white and corrugated from the handling 
 of countless steaming blankets, half open on her 
 knees. "Poor old rip," said Sebastian to himself, 
 and stepped more lightly. But, with a snort, Maria 
 scrambled to her feet. She rumbled: 
 
 "Signuri, the barley gruel and the milk are ready. 
 I've boiled five litres of tea. But we need more red 
 wine. . . ." 
 
 Rubbing her eyes, she waddled after him into the 
 adjoining room. 
 
 There the pallets lay close. The faces upturned 
 to the faint light were all strangely similar in their 
 color and their sharpness. At his approach, some 
 eyes remained motionless, oblivious, as if fixed on 
 mysteries that these others could not yet see. But a 
 few, slowly rolling their bluish visages toward him, 
 seemed, so to speak, to return a little way from the 
 border-land of life. 
 
 He went from one to another, touching the skin, 
 laying a finger on a pulse, saying a word or two, smil- 
 ing a smile that these men, even in their extremity, 
 could appreciate a smile that told them, "At least 
 we're still fighting ! " He turned to the priest. 
 
 "How are the women?" 
 
 "Most of them are better than these." 
 
 "Then let's look at the school-master." 
 
 But it needed only a glance at the school-master 
 to tell Sebastian the worst. 
 
 "We can do nothing here. He'll go out in this 
 reaction." 
 
 Once more, Don Vigilio's faded eyes were called
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 415 
 
 upon to fill with tears. All this poor victim's past 
 chirrupings of blasphemy, all his covert sneers, all his 
 spiteful little acts of enmity and obstruction, were 
 quite forgotten now. The old priest turned to Maria. 
 
 "Hang some sheets round this cot. I am going 
 for the Santissimo" 
 
 "The Santissimo for an atheist?" asked Sebastian, 
 dryly. 
 
 "Are we so sure, after all?" 
 
 Sebastian sat down beside the bed. 
 
 The school-master became conscious of his pres- 
 ence. His head turned on the pillow. He sent forth 
 a long look, of poignant inquiry. 
 
 Sebastian nodded. 
 
 He had received that mute inquiry before, from 
 other eyes. He had answered it before in the same 
 manner, to prepare the questioner for the sight of 
 Don Vigilio in his vestments, with the Host gleam- 
 ing in his hands. But his answer had never pro- 
 duced, in the wretch who comprehended it, this look 
 of absolute despair. For in the others there had 
 been the certainty of something in the Beyond. In 
 this one, there was nothing but the prospect of an- 
 nihilation. 
 
 Annihilation! To become nothing! To cease ut- 
 terly to be! To the poor vain egotist it was more 
 ghastly than the expectation of a Hell! 
 
 Intent, still almost dispassionately curious, Se- 
 bastian watched the play of emotion on that puer- 
 ile countenance. "Truly," he muttered, below his 
 breath, "it takes strong men to stand alone. But
 
 4i 6 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 how should one know how strong he is, until the 
 final test? . . ." 
 
 Presently, from the lips of the sufferer, broke a 
 voiceless cry: 
 
 "No! . . . No! . . ." 
 
 Sebastian asked calmly: 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 "The darkness. ... If only . . . But the dark- 
 ness! . . ." 
 
 Then he saw the priest at the bedside, robed, hold- 
 ing the Viaticum, and behind him, in a dirty, tat- 
 tered surplice, the little acolyte, shrinking from all 
 that met his eyes. 
 
 And, without stirring, suddenly the victim's whole 
 body appeared to reach out toward that emblem of 
 Immortality, that seemed of itself to give forth a 
 singular radiance from between Don Vigilio's trans- 
 parent fingers. 
 
 The priest's countenance showed a smile at once 
 triumphant and pitiful. He sank on one knee beside 
 the pallet. His arm was solemnly extended. Docile- 
 ly, the anguished eyes veiled themselves. With his 
 thumb, Don Vigilio anointed them. The hush was 
 penetrated by his quavering whisper: 
 
 "Through this holy unction, and His most tender 
 mercy, may God pardon thee those sins thou hast 
 committed by seeing. Amen. . . ." 
 
 He touched the ears, and then the lips. 
 
 "Through this holy unction, and His most tender 
 mercy, may God pardon thee those sins thou hast 
 committed by speaking. Amen. . . .
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 417 
 
 "Through this holy unction . . . ." 
 
 The words, very softly spoken, seemed different 
 from other words. Each syllable had, as it were, an 
 unearthly value. At least, the effect was extraor- 
 dinary. The face on the pillow ceased to be the face 
 of one in torment. 
 
 In the end, delicately, between thumb and finger, 
 Don Vigilio held out the crucifix. And the disfigured 
 lips, through which had passed abnegation and blas- 
 phemy of God, kissed with a thirsty eagerness the 
 rudely chiselled little image of Christ. When all was 
 finished, his visage was as calm as the others had 
 been. . . . 
 
 Sebastian returned to the Pagannis' house. 
 
 The air had freshened. Dawn was near. From 
 the groves on the slopes behind the village came the 
 twitter of waking birds. One call was like the liquid 
 cadenza of a flute of donax-reeds. He quickened his 
 steps. 
 
 The alley-door stood open. Ghirlaine was sitting 
 at the bedside. Her eyes were hollow: but her face 
 wore a look of happiness! 
 
 He stood beside her. 
 
 "How has he been?" 
 
 "So much better!" 
 
 Sebastian leaned over Little Paganni. Very gen- 
 tly he brushed back the thick chestnut curls. His 
 hand lingered on the young cheeks. He uttered a 
 low laugh. 
 
 "By Jove, I think we've won!" 
 
 He turned to the mother and the father.
 
 418 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "My friends, I fancy your mqffiusinu is going to 
 get well. Pipa! No noise! He must sleep. And, 
 by the same token, so must I!" 
 
 He shook off the woman, who was trying to kiss 
 his hand. 
 
 "Pay attention to what I'm saying, both of you. 
 I've given orders for him to be removed at daylight 
 to the parish-house, and for the other children to go 
 to the Syndic. As soon as they're out, this bed, and 
 everything we've been using, will be destroyed. 
 Whatever is destroyed, as I've told you all, time and 
 time again, I will replace. So perhaps you won't 
 take clubs to my young men, when they come to 
 burn mattresses? 
 
 "As for you two, eat and drink nothing, hence- 
 forth, that hasn't been prepared in the cafe. Touch 
 no food without washing your hands in hot water. 
 If one of you feels ill, let the other come and hunt 
 me up." 
 
 To Ghirlaine: 
 
 "Now, then, I'll see you to the villa." 
 
 They emerged into the alleyway, gray with the 
 first light of the dawn. Big Paganni and Agata fol- 
 lowed them. The mother kept crying: 
 
 "God will reward you! God and His blessed 
 saints will reward you!" 
 
 The father, his long face twisted into unaccus- 
 tomed lines of gratitude, echoed her with violent 
 fervor: 
 
 "God will surely reward you! ..." 
 
 Sebastian and Ghirlaine traversed the esplanade,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 419 
 
 climbed amid the bowlders of the lower slope, and 
 took the hill-path toward the headland. 
 
 On the ascent, a cool breeze came to them out of 
 the pale east. 
 
 "The heat is breaking. That's what we need. 
 Perhaps this is the turning-point." 
 
 " Perhaps. . . ." 
 
 As they climbed through the woods, the sky, be- 
 yond the swaying branches, turned from green to 
 gold. The heavens were pervaded by an intense 
 clarity. 
 
 Amid the leaves, on all sides, the birds were war- 
 bling, joyously, at the new gift of life that had just 
 come to them, with the immaculate dawn. 
 
 Ahead, the trees thinned away. On the summit 
 appeared the villa, ruddy in the first dazzling shafts 
 of sunlight, transfigured, like a place of dreams. 
 
 Sebastian halted. 
 
 "I'll leave you here." 
 
 "And where are you going now?" 
 
 "To the church. I've a cot under Don Vigilio's 
 pulpit. And I'll warrant I'm not the first who's 
 slept in that vicinity!" 
 
 He turned grave. 
 
 "Those clothes you have on. Throw them over 
 the cliffs before you bathe." 
 
 He still hesitated, staring into her eyes. Then : 
 
 "Tell me truly. Was it altogether the Camor- 
 rista?" 
 
 "Altogether." 
 
 "Your fear of him, I mean?"
 
 420 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Her eyes fell. 
 
 " My fear of him. Of what might happen. . . ." 
 
 "Not your determination, then, to show once more 
 that you were not a coward?" 
 
 She raised her head. Speaking quickly, in a 
 breathless way: 
 
 "I came down to warn you. I thought you didn't 
 know. I believed you were hi danger." 
 
 His features did not change. But a white flame 
 seemed to have swept across his face. 
 
 "And?" 
 
 "And those poor creatures down there had no one 
 who could help them but you. ... If anything had 
 happened to you, what would have happened to 
 them? . . ." 
 
 "Ah." 
 
 He turned away, and went down the hillside. 
 
 She stood looking after him, her hands pressed 
 against her heart, a figure all aflame in the red sun- 
 rise.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 GHIRLAINE, despite her physical weariness, did not 
 sleep. Her mind had never been more feverishly 
 active. And from none of her thoughts did she draw 
 back to-day, not even from the most enormous that 
 this man, who had done her irreparable injuries, 
 might on two occasions, by a word or gesture, have 
 made her forget all that! 
 
 The night when he had turned back the cholera 
 mob, this morning, when he had left her to go down 
 again into the plague-town, there had welled up in 
 her heart an unreasoning, fierce homage. At those 
 moments, she had seen nothing distinctly save his 
 unconquerable virility. And to that perception her 
 nature had responded with such fervor as if in her 
 body a strange being had replaced herself. 
 
 "Who am I? "she thought. "What is he? What 
 are we all, in this mad world where only the impos- 
 sible seems to happen?" She looked in her mirror, 
 at the face that had brought these things to pass. 
 Contemplating that beauty, she remembered Helen's, 
 which had been the death of countless brave men, 
 and the ruin of a city. She remembered Lucretia, 
 and the wars that had followed on her tears. And 
 she realized that age after age certain visages must 
 be the instruments of tragedy. 
 
 Now she discerned many things that had been 
 
 421
 
 422 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 veiled from her, in the old life up there. Even his 
 emotions, as they had been related to her, she could 
 glimpse now. But not yet in their entirety. 
 
 And there came to her an intense curiosity, such 
 as she had not felt regarding even Vincent Pamfort. 
 
 In Vincent Pamfort, for all his native reticence, 
 there was nothing complex. Her years with him 
 would have been practically a continuation of the 
 old. Was it not as a safe life-comrade, rather than 
 as a lover, that he had appealed to her? Had they 
 ever really risen above sentimental mediocrity? 
 
 She recalled the night of his good-by in the Pal- 
 azzo Campobasso. But was it surely he who had 
 impelled that moment of unprecedented self-aban- 
 donment? . . . 
 
 Did she not remember it! And their mutual 
 amazement hers at herself, and his at what she had 
 revealed! Then, for an instant, she had known her- 
 self to be a creature of possibilities hitherto unguessed 
 the sanctuary of divine fires. And had he not, 
 just for one second, recoiled from that perception, 
 almost like a man who has embraced a human 
 shape, to find her suddenly transformed into an 
 immortal? . . . 
 
 If he had evoked that moment, would he have met 
 it so? Could one who had drawn back from it, for 
 however infinitesimal a time, ever have risen with 
 her into those radiant, flaming spaces that had then 
 opened out above her? 
 
 A half-pitying smile crossed her lips. She looked 
 back on the past as one looks back from maturity on
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 423 
 
 adolescence, when smaller needs were satisfied with 
 smaller things. The dream of the peaceful English 
 country-side receded even farther, and grew very 
 dim like a mirage that could no longer hover near 
 this isle of savage hues and violent contours. 
 
 But surely that less vital past was soon going to 
 reclaim her now. What was phantasmal to-day 
 would coalesce into reality again. And this place 
 would become the dream. 
 
 She felt a swift flash of rage, that forces and per- 
 sons, instead of herself, should so sweep her hither 
 and thither. Why did she exist, if she had no choice 
 to choose? 
 
 But what did she wish to choose? 
 
 Unflinchingly, she looked this question in the face: 
 "Would I want everything just as it was before?" 
 
 The past years rose up, their fashionable richness, 
 their aimless hubbub, the feverish fulness of events 
 that masked their emptiness how trivial, how mer- 
 etricious, how humdrum now! As a girl, she had 
 stood on the threshold of those ample, glistening 
 places filled with an ecstasy of anticipation, her eyes 
 dazzled by the brilliancy, her senses confused by the 
 clatter of meaningless festivity, sure that the culmi- 
 nation of all happiness lay within. But how soon 
 had she not begun to repeat those words, " It is only 
 elsewhere that I shall find it!" 
 
 Then Pamfort had come, and she had seen another 
 sort of vista, serene, tender, placid as the "golden 
 mean" of Horace. That region she would never 
 reach. But would she have gone back to the point 
 where its attainment had been possible?
 
 424 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Now she repeated again: 
 
 " It is only elsewhere. ..." 
 
 For her awakening spirit saw that vista, too, as a 
 space too small for her containment. 
 
 "What am I, to-day? What shall I be to- 
 morrow? . . ." 
 
 At last, wearied by such speculations, she went 
 out on the portico, and gazed down, hands shading 
 eyes, skirts blowing, toward the village. 
 
 The air was clear. Every house-window, every 
 roof, every brown-tile gutter, stood forth distinctly. 
 The fishing-boats, drawn up on the beach, sent to 
 her the various colors of their painted hulls. This 
 atmospheric clarity elated her. The clean, fresh 
 wind had swept away the heat-mists. Perhaps it 
 would sweep away the cholera? 
 
 Fannia came, the baby in her arms, her ragged 
 skirts flapping round her stout brown ankles, and 
 stood beside Ghirlaine. The latter asked: 
 
 " Where is Annibale?" 
 
 "On the hillside, Signura, since you told him of 
 this new Camorrista. To make sure that one doesn't 
 come up a third time." 
 
 "Then he came up a second time!" 
 
 "Part-way." Fannia's strong, handsome face was 
 twisted by a half -contemptuous grimace. "Part- 
 way only, Signura. For Annibale clicked his rifle 
 behind the cactus, and called out: 'This is private 
 land, foreigner. Nothing passes here but bullets." 
 
 "And the Camorrista?" 
 
 "What was there for him to do? He laughed out 
 of one side of his mouth, and went down again."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 425 
 
 She reflected awhile, then added, with a sort of 
 grudging admiration: 
 
 "But the Signuri, when he first came up, and 
 Annibale clicked his rifle at him, didn't go back." 
 
 And after a time: 
 
 "But what would you have? The Signuri isn't 
 like other men. As you are not like other women, 
 Signura." 
 
 "Am I not, Fannia?" 
 
 They gazed into each other's eyes: and Ghirlaine's 
 fell before the peasant's, which were full of a 
 strangely piercing, natural intelligence. 
 
 "Eh," said Fannia, dryly, turning away, "I think 
 not, for a fact, Signura. . . . Eccu! Look, there is 
 the Signuri now, going to the parish-house." 
 
 They saw him cross the esplanade, and climb the 
 eastern promontory. Don Vigilio met him at the 
 door, and they went in together. 
 
 Within, they found improvement. At every cot, 
 their spirits rose higher. It seemed as if the cholera, 
 like a sentient thing, had almost satisfied its lust for 
 killing. The dangerous cases were convalescent. 
 No new seizures were reported from the village. In- 
 doors and out, a current of fresh vitality, and of 
 hope, had as it were been set in motion by that 
 quickened air. In the hospital, eyes showed instead 
 of the blankness of despair the eagerness of sufferers 
 who see a fighting chance. 
 
 Sebastian moved among them, haggard, but beam- 
 ing. The very weak followed him continually with 
 beseeching glances. The convalescents returned his
 
 426 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 greetings with faint grins, half ashamed and half 
 exultant. Old Ilario, on his pallet, stretched out his 
 dry, withered neck, showed under his white bristles a 
 curious contortion of the mouth, and revealed the 
 fact that even he could produce a sort of smile. 
 
 "Well, grandfather! The wind has changed." 
 
 "I knew it." 
 
 "And now we're all going to get well." 
 
 " I don't dispute it. Even this old hulk, I think." 
 
 "And when you're on your feet again?" asked Se- 
 bastian, looking at him keenly. 
 
 The ancient's puckered face twitched. Presently 
 he whispered: 
 
 "Well, Signuri, it's like this. While I lay here, 
 waiting for Don Vigilio to feed me the Sacrament and 
 have done with me, I found time to think a bit. I 
 thought some of Fannia, my trollop of a daughter. 
 And of Annibale. And of that brat of theirs. . . . 
 What did you say his name was?" 
 
 "Ercole." 
 
 "Ercole, that's it. A silly name: but any business 
 left to two fools is a silly business. Anyhow, I 
 thought of him, for some reason or other. And of a 
 drum I have hi my house, that I bought one day, 
 like a donkey, for eighteen soldi, when I was hi Tra- 
 pani, many years ago. When I thought my wife 
 was going to have a boy. But all she had, porca 
 Madonna, was Fannia!" 
 
 "What an outrage!" 
 
 "Eh! Who can depend on a woman to do a good 
 piece of work! ... So I thought of that drum, like
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 427 
 
 an old donkey, as I say. When I should have been 
 thinking of the Sacrament. Though," with a side- 
 glance to see if Don Vigilio was near, " I dare say the 
 taste of it is quite a disappointment to most of us?" 
 
 "You mustn't talk too much just yet, Ilario." 
 
 "Signuri, it is a fact that these last few days a 
 number of my organs have gone against my wishes, 
 but at least I am the master of my tongue. To re- 
 sume. That drum. It's broken in on one side, and 
 my wife got a beating for that. But now she's dead 
 these several years, and doubtless understands why. 
 . . . Anyhow, not to take in all the fish one by 
 one, when I'm on my legs again, I shall fetch that 
 drum up to your place, and give it to this brat by the 
 name of Ercole, and say to him, 'Now, then, beat it 
 well, and let me hear you beat it well, and an apo- 
 plexy on you for making me climb this hill for such 
 a trifle!'" 
 
 The old man, with a snort, turned his head away 
 and lay motionless. He concluded, harshly: 
 
 "You asked me what I shall do when I'm up, and 
 I've told you. Well, are you satisfied?" 
 
 "Oh, quite!" 
 
 "Then in God's name, leave me for a while in 
 peace!" 
 
 Sebastian moved on to the Maresciallo's bedside. 
 
 The big, blond carabineer was well enough, by this 
 time, to be angry at Sicily's delay in sending help. 
 But when he had relieved his mind with a volley of 
 Tuscan expletives, he stopped, shrugged his shoul- 
 ders, and remarked:
 
 428 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "After all, Excellency, these southerners. As 
 these islanders of Torregiante are to Sicily, so is 
 Sicily to the North. What haven't I learned, since 
 my profession brought me into these parts ! For one 
 thing, that it's folly to expect much of folks who've 
 never had the means of learning. That is why I'm 
 not so full as I used to be of virtuous indignation, 
 when one of them, for instance, commits a fatto di 
 sangue, and throws his victim down the trap in the 
 temple of the Old Ones. . . ." 
 
 Sebastian returned his steady gaze unwinkingly, 
 till he went on : 
 
 "For of course, from their point of view, there 
 are always extenuating circumstances. Which, even 
 from ours, must be rather sound, when a gentleman 
 is accessory to the deed? " 
 
 Still Sebastian made no reply. The Marshal 
 mused: 
 
 "To make a murder trial, the body is indispensa- 
 ble. I think no one will ever get at Nino's. The Old 
 Ones are jealous of their secrets. Besides, perhaps 
 all this is just a surmise of mine. ... In my opinion, 
 that disappearance must join the unexplained mys- 
 teries of Torregiante." 
 
 Said Sebastian at last: 
 
 "Maresciallo, I believe you possess that rare thing, 
 a sympathetically judicial mind." 
 
 "Too much honor, Excellency! But at least, I've 
 learned this much in these parts: that the law isn't 
 justice when applied in the same way to the civilized 
 and the uncivilized. Mah, does one punish children
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 429 
 
 as one punishes men? And if these people remain 
 like children, their crimes, as well as their sufferings, 
 are on our head. We who are rising, Signore, owe 
 it to the rest to pull them after us?" 
 
 "These are not the ideas of a carabineer, Maresei- 
 allo." 
 
 "Maybe your Excellency is right. Some of them 
 are probably Don Vigilio's, and I have had them 
 from him in our evenings together? At any rate, 
 it's perfectly true that I've only had them lately." 
 
 " A place for new thoughts, eh, Torregiante? . . ."" 
 
 And Sebastian returned absent-mindedly to Little 
 Paganni's cot. 
 
 Old Maria was sitting beside that small patient, 
 her triple chin sagging, fighting against drowsiness. 
 But at Sebastian's approach she straightened her 
 mountainous body with a grunt. Eagerly, in a vio- 
 lent wheeze, which doubtless she believed to be a 
 whisper: 
 
 "He is asleep." 
 
 "He is lucky." 
 
 "An hour ago he drank broth, and asked after his 
 relations like a man. If I had had a son, he would 
 have been like this one! But alas, my sons were all 
 daughters, and the four of them died hi one week in 
 the year of the small-pox. A poor thing, my husband, 
 for a fact, blessed soul. ... He was drowned in a 
 storm, and there went down with him a boat-load of 
 fine fish as you see, an extravagant fellow to the 
 last! But handsome when he was young. This 
 little one looks like him, as he was in his boyhood.
 
 430 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 We were betrothed at ten years of age. At sixteen 
 we married, and none too soon. Will you believe 
 that in those days there were plenty to whisper in old 
 Maria's ear? . . . Eh, and here is another that we've 
 saved to turn girls' heads, and play once too often 
 with danger, whether of water or steel, and leave a 
 fool of a woman crying in a half -empty bed! ..." 
 
 Said Sebastian, looking down at the little thin face 
 on the pillow: 
 
 " If I had my own future in my hands, I could tell 
 you very quickly what we've saved him for. ..." 
 
 That afternoon, he walked with Don Vigilio, on 
 the stone terrace before the church-door. 
 
 They talked of the checking of the cholera, and 
 pondered the question whether their rude efforts, or 
 some freak of the epidemic, had been responsible. 
 Finally, the priest declared: 
 
 "This is my belief. In every time, men live hi the 
 age of miracles. That they don't realize the fact, is 
 because they themselves are the instruments of the 
 miraculous. Men are moved to do wonders, and, 
 the wonders done, say, ' It is I who have accomplished 
 this.' But at our moment of highest inspiration, 
 whether hi science, or art, or social usefulness, when 
 that is suddenly born in us which makes for a new 
 power in the human battle, whence comes the germ 
 for that birth? Ah, my son, believe me, we are just 
 the field how fallow, if we but cleared the ground of 
 weeds! And the seed floats down, alights within us, 
 takes root, springs up, and bears the miraculous 
 fruit.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 431 
 
 " One day you asked me the story of Saint Giosue. 
 It is all written out in an ancient book in the sac- 
 risty, in old French, from the days of Roger the Nor- 
 man. How a soldier of fortune, who had seen much 
 blood and cruelty in many lands, came here in pur- 
 suit of a great lady, who had fled from him. Here 
 he ran her down, for she had taken refuge in a castle 
 which used to stand where we're standing now, but 
 centuries ago its walls all crumbled into the sea. And 
 here they fought, as he tells it, the 'battle of the 
 white banner and the red.' 
 
 "And he says: 'Of all the wars and feuds I had 
 known and those were not a few never before had 
 I found the field so ill prepared for victory. For this 
 was the Isle of Life, and the voices of the Old Ones 
 troubled me. And out of the very soil of the Isle of 
 Life, there rose strange whispers from the past, and 
 the shapes of old crimes. Till at last, one evening, 
 walking on the heights, as always in the intervals of 
 my besiegement, I saw our Blessed Lord and Saviour 
 coming toward me through the shadows, leading by 
 the hand the image of Myself, all black and bloody, 
 to show it to me. And I fled from that sight, and 
 went down to the shore. And there I took off my 
 hauberk and my helmet, and knelt before the castle 
 gate, and cried out, "King Roger has said yes, but 
 King Jesus Christ says no. Go in peace." And she 
 departed, standing like a fair white image against 
 the sky, on a little galley; for I had sent back the 
 large ships for engines to break the walls. And at 
 her departure she appeared so beautiful that she
 
 432 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 seemed already to have become a soul in Paradise. 
 And this was no less strange than all the rest: for 
 the galley went down in a great sea off Sicily but 
 she was lifted up, with robes all dry, by angels into 
 Paradise, as those testified who were saved. And I 
 sent away my people, bidding them go their ways 
 and do no more evil. But I remained here. And 
 when King Roger sent messengers, I gave them for 
 him my broken sword, and a cross that I had carved 
 out of olive-wood. And since then, every evening 
 on the heights, I meet my Saviour walking hand in 
 hand with Myself; but Myself is no longer black and 
 bloody. For' and these words are engrossed in 
 gold 'that part of me which I loved best I have 
 destroyed." 
 
 Sebastian started from his revery. 
 
 "The writing in the temple!" 
 
 "Is that so? Well, what is new, in this life?" 
 
 "What indeed? . . ." 
 
 For a while, Sebastian smoked in silence. At 
 length, with a smile : 
 
 "Are you familiar, Padre, with the doctrine of 
 reincarnation?" 
 
 "Somewhat." 
 
 "But naturally it hasn't your approval. Nor 
 mine, as I need hardly say! . . . All the same, it's an 
 amusing theme for fancy, for egotists, who dream of 
 getting in a hereafter what Fate has denied them 
 here. . . . Our Giosue, first condottiere at large, then 
 local saint one would imagine, according to the 
 Buddhists, for instance, that he'd finished that par-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 433 
 
 ticular test successfully, and wouldn't have to return 
 to it again?" 
 
 "I presume one would think so, yes, according to 
 the Buddhists," Don Vigilio answered, in some per- 
 plexity. 
 
 "Unless," Sebastian resumed, still smiling, "his 
 final decision was an error?" 
 
 "An error!" 
 
 As if to himself, Sebastian repeated: 
 
 "Not union, but separation. . . ." 
 
 The old priest's worn face began to flush. 
 
 "Not carnal union, no. But not separation, 
 either! Union with God, my son." 
 
 "Are the two absolutely incompatible?" 
 
 Don Vigilio quoted, in a quivering voice: 
 
 "'He who declares that celibacy is not a better 
 state, let him be anathema ! ' ' 
 
 "Then why are we here, in this world?" 
 
 "To triumph over it." 
 
 "Why should I have half -expected you to say, To 
 fit ourselves to live in it? ... No, we must differ 
 there. In my opinion, Saint Giosue read the writing 
 wrong." 
 
 His gaze reached out toward the western headland. 
 High into the clear sky it rose; and round its vast 
 rock foundations, on the bosom of the sharp blue sea, 
 came creeping a strange steam-boat. 
 
 Sebastian added quietly: 
 
 "And for Saint Giosue, at least, there must still 
 have been time to read it right. . . . Look, Padre. 
 There comes a ship. I fancy it's one that I've been 
 expecting for a long while."
 
 434 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "The doctors!" 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 "But what else, good Heavens!" 
 
 "At any rate, let's go down and see." 
 
 But it was only the doctors. 
 
 White-clad, with orderlies, nurses, and a detach- 
 ment of carabineers from Palermo, they swarmed 
 into Torregiante, to find their work all done for them. 
 The epidemic was conquered. The islanders were 
 peaceable once more. Nothing remained but to dis- 
 infect the houses and the alleyways, safeguard the 
 convalescents and irritate the natives. 
 
 For these, at the invasion of the "foreigners," had 
 shown signs of new suspicion. Where there were 
 doctors were always dead men! Did these strut- 
 ting strangers intend to undo everything? 
 
 It was not till Sebastian had harangued them on 
 the esplanade, that they would leave off showing 
 their teeth and growling. Then Big Paganni, stand- 
 ing lank and solemn hi his patches, his slanting eyes 
 fixed on Sebastian, voiced the general sentiment : 
 
 "Signuri, if you tell us it's so, we will believe you 
 till we see otherwise for ourselves. You have 
 given me back my son; and there are more here pres- 
 ent who owe some life to you. We people of Turri- 
 gianti aren't fond of strangers at any time. As per- 
 haps you've found out for yourself. These new ones 
 are assassins at home, no doubt, one and all! You 
 see them over everything already, like a litre of fleas ! 
 Let them take care that nobody sickens of their 
 biting! . . . 
 
 "But you say you'll be responsible? Only one
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 435 
 
 thing, Signuri. We ask you to see that they fin- 
 ish their foolishness and go quickly. We are free 
 men here, not used to taking orders from outsiders, 
 and our tempers are short. A man can't contain 
 himself forever. Better to let some one else's blood 
 than to let one's own in an apoplexy. . . ." 
 
 Toward evening, Sebastian, freed from his labors, 
 went up to the northern cliffs, and entered the temple. 
 
 He took from his pocket a candle-end, lighted it, 
 and set it on the little altar. Then, leaning forward, 
 he deciphered once more the archaic inscription on 
 the wall. 
 
 To reach my altar, that part of you which you have loved best 
 must be destroyed. . . . 
 
 Up from the echo-well, through the subterranean 
 passages somewhere in which the bones of uncounted 
 dead men lay, clear from the caves, far below, where 
 the languid tide was rolling in, came softly the 
 "voices of the Old Ones," murmuring still, as it 
 seemed, the cryptic answer to that enigma. The dim 
 stone sanctuary was full of that mysterious sibilance, 
 persistent through the ages. 
 
 At last Sebastian sighed quickly, then uttered a 
 low laugh. 
 
 Reaching for the candle-end, he turned toward the 
 door. His hand remained extended. He stood mo- 
 tionless. He felt himself growing tense, compact, 
 more powerful and more intelligent than he had been 
 a moment before. A thrill of primitive joy went 
 through him.
 
 436 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 A dozen feet away, before the stone screen that 
 masked the entrance, on the very crack of the secret 
 pitfall, a tall man was standing, looking at him. It 
 was Angielo Cristofores, the Camorrista.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 GHIRLAINE, in the portico, had seen Sebastian 
 climb the hill-path, and turn aside, through the 
 groves, toward the temple. Soon afterward, Anni- 
 bale had left his post among the cactus-hedges, come 
 up to the villa, commented on the doings of the doc- 
 tors and the carabineers, then gone on to the northern 
 cliffs, in order to scramble down and draw his nets. 
 But she had continued to search the slope which both 
 had travelled, convinced that some one else would 
 follow soon. And presently, as twilight was rushing 
 in, for a moment she saw through distant foliage a 
 panama hat. 
 
 She left the house, broke through the northern 
 thickets, traversed the narrow cliff-path, approached 
 the temple. She was just in time to see the Ca- 
 morrista glide inside. In another moment, on swift 
 but noiseless feet, she reached the door. She came 
 too late for warning, but not too late to hear the first 
 words of that encounter. 
 
 It was the Camorrista who spoke first, in French. 
 And from the tone of his voice she felt that he did so, 
 even at this moment, because he was proud of his 
 mastery and excellent pronunciation of that lan- 
 guage, as he was proud of his fastidious attire, his 
 jewelled rings, and the quasi-gentlemanly air which 
 he maintained, no doubt, through all his villainy. 
 
 437
 
 438 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 He had said: 
 
 "I disturb you, Monsieur? But it is so difficult 
 to find an opportunity for uninterrupted conver- 
 sation." 
 
 Sebastian's voice responded, calmly: 
 
 "Quite so. But take care where you step, Mon- 
 sieur Cristofores. There's a trap almost under your 
 feet. Put your weight on it, and you go shooting 
 down toward the caves." 
 
 A silence. At length, the Camorrista's voice: 
 
 " Tiens! This is curious, eh? Not only the little 
 arrangements of this place, but also the fact that you 
 tell me of them. And most curious of all since 
 you know my name? " 
 
 "Oh, as for that! Fame will out, you know, like 
 murder." 
 
 "Ah, Monsieur, I beg of you no flattery. Yet, at 
 least, knowing my name, that saves us a pile of tire- 
 some preliminaries." 
 
 "Precisely. . . . Pardon the digression, but do 
 you find it uncomfortably cold in here?" 
 
 "Because I have my hands in my pockets?" 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 "But you also, Monsieur, it seems to me, have your 
 hand in your pocket." 
 
 Sebastian laughed gently. 
 
 " The last time I looked at my candle-end it was 
 guttering. And the sun is gone. So presently we 
 sha'n't be able to see each other. And that would 
 be fatal to our argument." 
 
 It was the Camorrista who laughed now, like a man
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 439 
 
 who has entered fully into the spirit of the occasion. 
 He said: 
 
 "At least, confess that both of us have means of 
 making lights!" 
 
 "Oh, I should have too much advantage of you 
 then. I know this place like my pocket. It wouldn't 
 be I who might step on the trap by mistake, and find 
 myself suddenly with Nino." 
 
 In the long pause that followed, Ghirlaine crept 
 inside the threshold and leaned, with pounding heart, 
 against the stone screen that hid the sanctuary. She 
 pictured the scene within: the two men, alert, hands 
 clasping hidden weapons, staring at each other un- 
 winkingly across the pitfall. If she made some 
 sound, perhaps for one instant the Camorrista would 
 be disconcerted, and give Sebastian his chance? But 
 she was afraid to set loose that crash of tragedy, 
 of which the issue might easily be two deaths instead 
 of one. 
 
 She heard the stranger: 
 
 "So this is the road that Nino took!" 
 
 And, half apologetically: 
 
 "You must understand, Monsieur, that I'm not 
 much interested in the affairs of that little animal 
 per se. In his case, it's not the person, but the prin- 
 ciple. So with the other two. They were much 
 more useful parts than he, but still quite ordinary. 
 By far too ordinary for their last performance, Mon- 
 sieur. That was because we had the misfortune to 
 underestimate you. But since they suffered, also, 
 something had to be done. Nowadays, in most
 
 440 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 states, a ruler who fails to protect and avenge his 
 people, even the humblest, is not for long a popular 
 ruler." 
 
 "Your sense of responsibility does you credit." 
 
 "When this affair commenced, I was much occu- 
 pied with politics. Otherwise, perhaps I shouldn't 
 have consented to operations so far afield. But 
 what would you have? This has been a thin year 
 for our poor fellows at home. .We aren't what we 
 were before the process at Viterbo. Many of our 
 men were out of work month in, month out. They 
 clamored to take up this job. I let them come. . . . 
 
 "Monsieur, in Naples, at the present moment, they 
 are waiting for Masto Angielo Cristofores to tell 
 them that in our hypothetical ledgers they may write 
 against the unfortunate incident at Torregiante, ' Ac- 
 quitted.' You perceive my dilemma?" 
 
 "Naturally, Monsieur. The candle is going out; 
 and I perceive that you have no choice but to take 
 your hands from your pockets." 
 
 Ghirlaine, beyond the screen, straightened her 
 trembling limbs, and took one stealthy step. Was 
 it the moment? . . . 
 
 The Camorrista 's voice arrested her. 
 
 "Monsieur, I beg of you to believe that if I haven't 
 already done so, it isn't through any hesitation of 
 which a man might be ashamed." 
 
 "I've always been a fair judge of a brave man, my 
 friend." 
 
 "Thank you. . . . No, it is something else. 
 Though, after all, I don't know precisely whether I
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 441 
 
 ought to be ashamed of it or not. . . . Look here. 
 Shall I confess that all this while I've had my hands 
 in my pockets merely in the interests of self-preserva- 
 tion?" 
 
 "Of self-preservation? " 
 
 "Of nothing else, parbleu! . . . Soon after my ar- 
 rival here, I began to surmise that you were aware of 
 the second object of my visit the one that didn't 
 concern my brother. From my observations, I pre- 
 sumed that you were one who would meet a dilemma 
 at least half-way. That you would be the very man 
 to recall the useful adage, 'It's the first shot that 
 counts.' . . ." 
 
 "The candle is out, Monsieur Cristofores. But if 
 you wish you can move to another spot, as I have 
 done, and go on talking. With these echoes, one's 
 voice might come from anywhere. Only, be careful 
 of the pitfall. It was just before you, as you were 
 standing when I last saw you. ..." 
 
 "Why do you insist on giving me that advantage, 
 Monsieur?" 
 
 "It's not an advantage. I merely put you on 
 equal ground with myself. No duel is a duel, I take 
 it, unless the ground is equal. As you were saying? " 
 
 The Camorrista did not reply till Ghirlaine's heart 
 had thumped a score of times. Then: 
 
 "Monsieur, when I came to Torregiante, I ex- 
 pected to find a simpler situation. A rich man, living 
 here for purposes of his own a 'big piece,' as we say, 
 much like the general run of big pieces. But instead 
 I found a man in rough clothes working among these
 
 442 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 pig-sties like a hundred devils, trying to pull these 
 poor brutes out of their predicament, doing the work 
 of my own countrymen for nothing. As I should 
 never have been tempted to do it. As no one else 
 of my acquaintance would have been tempted to do 
 it, who was not a doctor or a soldier under orders. 
 
 "Name of God ! If I wouldn't have done it, at least 
 I could appreciate it ! You were a fool to risk your 
 life that way, for beasts who could never know how 
 much you were staked to lose but it was a splendid 
 kind of folly, Monsieur! The kind we others some- 
 times dream of being capable of. The kind a man 
 wonders at, and envies. 
 
 "In a word, you weren't the one I had expected 
 to find. It wouldn't do. If I had come before the 
 cholera, well and good; for I should never have known 
 the man I was killing. How often, I wonder, do we 
 know the man we're killing? . . . 
 
 "But after the cholera? Does one stab at a man 
 who has just clambered out of the sea, after saving 
 one's brother? For, in effect, these are my brothers. 
 Society has turned down its thumbs on them, as it 
 has on me, though in another way. They are my 
 brothers, and you have been good to them. And at 
 the same time, you've been good to yourself! 
 
 " In Naples, Monsieur, I'm known as a man of my 
 word. Perhaps when a rich man has to leave his 
 wife and children and valuables alone in his villa 
 at Posilipo he sends for me, we arrange the price, 
 and my word is given for their safety. After that, so 
 long as he's away, his family could go to bed with
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 443 
 
 doors and windows open, and the lowest man who 
 leads the free life in Naples wouldn't even loiter at 
 their gates. When I say, 'This man is safe,' he is 
 safe. 
 
 "Now, Monsieur, I tell you this. For the sake of 
 the cholera days in Torregiante, you are safe, hence- 
 forth, from all annoyance of the Camorra. And 
 your lady is safe. And all your household. And the 
 man who said 'no' to that would reckon with me, 
 Angielo Cristofores. And there are very few, I 
 think, in Naples, who would care to reckon with 
 Angielo Cristofores." 
 
 He stopped, hesitated, and cleared his throat, as 
 if embarrassed. In the end: 
 
 "Look here, Monsieur. I If you care to forget 
 where I have dipped my fingers from time to time, 
 I should like to shake hands with you. The left 
 hand, if you still have doubts. It would be a sat- 
 isfaction." 
 
 A pause. . . . Was it a trick? . . . 
 
 Footsteps sounded. In the dusky vestibule Ghir- 
 laine drew back. The Camorrista emerged, and 
 walked away quickly through the shadows. And 
 dimly she saw Sebastian close at hand, peering down 
 at her. 
 
 "What are you here for?" 
 
 She gave no answer. He raised his head, and 
 looked round him. 
 
 "Which way did he go?" 
 
 She made a gesture, and let her hand fall limply. 
 
 He said:
 
 444 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Let's get back to the house." 
 
 They returned to the villa. 
 
 It was already night. The blue-black sky was full 
 of stars, and these the sea faintly reflected from a 
 myriad ripples covered, one would say, as by a 
 glittering net. The flowers of the terrace gave forth 
 a stronger, sweeter perfume than in daytime. In the 
 groves, a nightingale was warbling. And out of the 
 illimitable zenith something immense and soft and 
 fragrant, like a vast kiss, embraced the odorous earth. 
 
 Far below shone the warm lights of the village and 
 the steam-boat. Little sparks of yellow, they sent 
 their signals up to this towering headland as if out of 
 a void that held another world. A world that these 
 two had passed through that these two had been 
 forced, in passing through, to comprehend, before 
 they could stand here, with all their most subtle 
 faculties rousing to wakefulness. 
 
 That world, which those lights seemed to epito- 
 mize! He, for his part, turned back in contem- 
 plation of its ignorance and cruelty, its folly and 
 depravity. Almost in its true colors he saw it now. 
 He wondered whether, at this moment, he might 
 have seen it altogether truly if, like a psychic medium 
 who reads some human riddle, he could have held 
 her hand awhile? 
 
 The words escaped him: 
 
 "So the old man was right!" 
 
 She faced him slowly, as if returning from a dis- 
 
 "What old man?"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 445 
 
 "Some one you never knew, I think. An old 
 philosopher near Rome. John Elzevir." 
 
 "I've heard his name. What did he say?" 
 
 Sebastian sat down on the edge of the portico. 
 She remained standing there, shining dimly in the 
 starlight, staring at his indistinct visage. 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 And Sebastian repeated: 
 
 "'For always, though he may not know it, man is 
 hunting, hunting, hunting, perhaps through his error 
 in the very mire of debauchery, for the inestimable 
 jewel. The talisman to unlock all things that are 
 necessary for us, in this world. . . ." : 
 
 She did not move. And presently he went on : 
 
 "But it was another old man, here in Torregiante, 
 who uttered the complement of that speech." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "In short, that it was useless for some to hunt. 
 * Since nothing comes to us that is not of the nature 
 of ourselves. . . .'" 
 
 For a while she was silent. At last : 
 
 "One must rise!" 
 
 He looked up at her face, which seemed, in the 
 star-light, to have a new, celestial quality. Again 
 he shook his head. 
 
 "Too far. The inestimable jewel would have to 
 hang lower than it does. It would have to hang too 
 low. Do the divine white stars come down to touch 
 the earth?" 
 
 Suddenly she stretched out her arm. 
 
 "There! On the horizon." 
 
 "An illusion."
 
 446 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "What else is anything?" 
 
 "The horizon, unhappily, is always the same dis- 
 tance from us." 
 
 "And yet, all our happiness, all our real happiness, 
 is in struggling on toward it. And since that is so, 
 who shall dare to say that some day we may not at- 
 tain it? ... See where they bend down there, and 
 meet the earth. Heaven and water mingle there. 
 That which has always been serene mingles with what 
 has often been convulsed. What has always been 
 serene? But even the still stars have known their 
 cataclysms!" 
 
 He came to his feet. But the portico stood 
 empty. She was gone. 
 
 Presently he went down into the groves. And Nat- 
 ure enveloped him more closely, more personally, 
 than ever. The rustle of the leaves was like a 
 whisper for his ear. The obscurity gave forth, now 
 and then, as it were the suggestion of some presence, 
 at once infinitely remote and exquisitely intimate. 
 He thought of Saint Giosue. "For this was the Isle 
 of Life: and the voices of the Old Ones troubled 
 me. . . ." He stood still, looked round him, and 
 said aloud, grinning painfully, with one more flicker 
 of cynicism: 
 
 "Then in such a famous place, is it too much to ask 
 some sign some trifling miracle? " 
 
 But he heard again the quavering voice of Don 
 Vigilio : 
 
 "From within, not from without. We ourselves 
 are the field, if we but cleared away the weeds. ..." 
 
 "Too little time, even if the reward were sure!
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 447 
 
 Any hour, now, they may be here. Something tells 
 me that at this moment they're well on their way at 
 last." 
 
 For now that his anxiety concerning the cholera 
 and the Camorrista was ended, he had a sense of 
 foreboding more profound than hitherto. Was it 
 not that his hour had almost struck? 
 
 What would happen then? He reflected: 
 
 " From the stand-point of the world up there, my 
 insanity has done for both of us. But she will 
 have gained nothing in return. While I, at least, 
 have gained something." 
 
 For he felt that he was no longer the man he had 
 been. And he would never have believed that such 
 a feeling could have brought him exultation. 
 
 Yet it had brought him exultation in the very 
 midst of his despair. For he had already perceived 
 himself to be an ampler, a more universal being. He 
 had almost entered those fields of emotion which 
 so many others knew. He had glimpsed what had 
 so chafed him, and embittered him, in the past, be- 
 cause he could not see it. And he had risen a little 
 way toward the inestimable jewel. 
 
 "But only to see it vanish forever, to-morrow, next 
 day!" 
 
 Far better to put such thoughts out of his mind, 
 and prepare to end his career, as they would say, 
 "consistently." 
 
 Still, at dawn, instead of such preparations, he 
 wended his way across the uplands toward the her- 
 mit's hut.
 
 448 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 The hermit was sitting before his door. His hands, 
 entwined with the coarse rosary, lay idle in the lap 
 of his brown robe. His head was bowed forward, so 
 that his long hah* hung about his face. But at 
 length he raised his head, let his melancholy young 
 eyes roam round, and saw Sebastian standing under 
 the sweet-lemon tree. The visitor advanced, and sat 
 down beside the hermit. 
 
 "Well, my friend, how goes it to-day? Do you 
 move forward?" 
 
 The recluse considered this question for a while, 
 then answered, in dull tones: 
 
 " God forgive me as a man goes forward who still 
 finds that he drags heavy chains." 
 
 "Ah! Perhaps because, after all, you're over- 
 young to try this road? It's only when we're old, I 
 fancy, that those chains begin to fall from us." 
 
 The hermit made a sudden gesture. 
 
 "There is no virtue in release, unless we've fought 
 for it." 
 
 Sebastian shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Pardon the opinion, but aren't you, in the last 
 analysis, just fighting human nature?" 
 
 The other smiled bitterly, but did not reply at once. 
 Near by, on a rock aglisten with mica, a butterfly, 
 fresh from its cocoon, was slowly airing its cerulean- 
 blue wings. When he had stared for a time at this 
 insect, the hermit said, in a low voice: 
 
 "If that were all! ... No: if it were only nature, 
 I shouldn't be here. In my case, nature has got so 
 mixed up with perversity that there's been that
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 449 
 
 there is still no question of the one without the 
 other." 
 
 He paused, looked at Sebastian askance, and went 
 on quietly, though his voice was unsteady: 
 
 " Up there, it was always depravity that attracted 
 me most strongly. The curious, the abnormal, the 
 vicious. I was aware of this. I wasn't like those 
 who blacken their souls as it were unconsciously. 
 All the while, I perceived the Ideal, far above me, 
 dim but constant. And nothing that I did in dis- 
 accord with that ideal brought me anything but 
 misery. Yet I was unable to act otherwise! Al- 
 ways it was perversity that drew me, that nauseated 
 me, and yet held me tight, that gave me a terrible 
 satisfaction and a terrible remorse. You can hardly 
 understand such a state of things, no doubt." 
 
 Sebastian made no reply. On the mica-streaked 
 rock, the blue butterfly slowly aired its wings. The 
 recluse went on: 
 
 "Then there came across my path a certain one 
 who contained, as it seemed to me, all the condensed 
 evil of the world. The Scarlet Woman personified, 
 full of a most perilous poison, and poisoning all she 
 looked at. And though I recognized her at once for 
 what she was, I could not escape. The supreme evil 
 in her effected in me the supreme fascination. She 
 was all of cruelty, and ruthlessness, and spiritual 
 death, in one body and I embraced her. And it 
 was not till she threw me away with a laugh . . . 
 
 "Even then I wasn't cured. For it was she, not I, 
 who had tired. And of course it is always the one 
 who tires that forgets.
 
 450 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "I pursued her. What ignominy! The harsh 
 words of servants made insolent by their mistress's 
 contempt ! Doors shut in my face, then the sight of 
 the successor entering! Long vigils beneath lighted 
 windows, in the rain, and then the light extinguished ! 
 ... I went through all that, many times. I was 
 like a man who has been thrust out of an Inferno, 
 scorched and maimed, yet struggles frantically to get 
 back. . . . But you won't understand me!" 
 
 Sebastian said nothing. Under the wild-olive trees, 
 another blue butterfly was fluttering now, amid the 
 thick-sown marigolds. The hermit continued : 
 
 "One night in Rome, after such a scene, I was 
 dragging my feet at random through the misty 
 streets. I came to the door of a great house, some 
 palace perhaps, and the portone was ablaze with 
 torches. It was a festa: carriages were drawing up. 
 Still dazed, I stood in the gutter, among the beggars 
 and the poor folk, without knowing that I was there, 
 and watched the people going in. 
 
 "And all at once, there alighted from one automo- 
 bile a woman, tall, fair, shining, who should have worn 
 great wings a woman with the face of an angel. 
 And at the sight of such a face, something broke in 
 my heart. I said to myself: 'And what I am forced 
 to choose! And what I am forced to choose! . . .' 
 I sank down against the wall : I had eaten nothing all 
 day; my last copper had gone in following that other. 
 Some poor neighbors, who thought I was ill, took me 
 into their house. There was a crucifix before the 
 bed, and I prayed for deliverance, as I had never 
 prayed before. And next day I set out afoot, on this
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 451 
 
 pilgrimage, hoping to find deliverance at the end of 
 it. And I think that if my brother troubles me no 
 more, some day I shall. But God draws close to 
 some, and stays close to some, more readily than to 
 others." 
 
 He was silent. The blue butterfly from beneath 
 the wild-olive trees joined the butterfly on the rock. 
 And together, fluttering, they rose into the air, and 
 grew small against the bright sky of the new day. 
 
 Sebastian went down through the olive-groves, 
 toward the village, thinking that this man's past was 
 but the more enlightened duplicate of his own, and 
 that a very similar influence had meant for both the 
 turning-point. "Tall and shining, who should have 
 worn great wings, with the face of an angel. ..." 
 
 In the village, all was changed: Torregiante seemed 
 Torregiante no longer. The carabineers paced the 
 esplanade in pairs. The hospital orderlies were 
 emerging from alleyways that they left white with 
 disinfectant. Behind the houses, mattresses and 
 bed-steads were being burned. On the eastern 
 promontory, some doctors, clad in white duck, 
 smoking cigarettes, were talking with Don Vigilio. 
 
 While making for the parish-house, Sebastian 
 passed them. They intercepted him, to offer fresh 
 compliments. Their chief, an erect, long-nosed little 
 man with the mustache and peaked beard of a cav- 
 alier, became lyrical in his praise. 
 
 "With nothing at hand but absolutely nothing 
 you contrived the basic remedies. It was colossal, 
 Signore! Given a few days more, I suspect you 
 would have found opium. ..."
 
 452 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Sebastian listened absent-mindedly. "When they 
 stopped, he thanked them, and went on. He had 
 hardly seen them. 
 
 One said: 
 
 "A strange man." 
 
 Another inquired: 
 
 "A Russian, did you say?" 
 
 And a third: 
 
 "Let's hope we catch a sight of his wife." 
 
 "Do you know, by the way, their being cast up 
 here is highly curious? Especially since it was just 
 about that time ..." 
 
 Sebastian entered the parish-house, and went to 
 Little Paganni's cot. 
 
 The boy was awake. His large eyes, mobile once 
 more, turned from black to clear blue, when they per- 
 ceived Sebastian. His brows contracted; then his 
 lips parted in a faint smile. He said, weakly: 
 
 "Signuri, these strangers in their white clothes 
 annoy us men in here, with their foolish goings on. 
 They stick a glass needle in my mouth. You didn't 
 do that when I was sick. Why do they do it, then, 
 when I'm well again? Next time I shall do like old 
 Ilario. He bit the glass needle in two, and spat it 
 out at them. And he said things very useful when 
 one's dealing with donkeys." 
 
 Sebastian sat down, and took Little Paganni's 
 hand. 
 
 "And how do you feel now, Pan?" 
 
 "Tired of this house. I like the trees better. 
 What will become of the goats? Are they penned in 
 some cellar? All this day, I've thought I heard them
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 453 
 
 bleating for me to let them out. It was terrible ! They 
 need the open. No more was I made to be cooped 
 up in so small a place, Signuri!" 
 
 "So I think also, Little Paganni. In fact, if it 
 lay with me ... Tell me; you're not afraid of me 
 any more?" 
 
 The boy turned his head away fretfully. 
 
 "Eh! Why did you make me think of all that 
 again?" 
 
 He looked down at his breast. 
 
 "Anyway, I still have on my amulet." 
 
 "It didn't keep you from catching the cholera." 
 
 "Perhaps not. But it made me well." 
 
 He looked sideways at Sebastian with his elfin eyes, 
 then added, slowly: 
 
 "My babba says it was you!" 
 
 "Very foolish of him, I'm sure." 
 
 "So I say to myself. Not to him. . . . My 
 mamma also. She says I must remember you al- 
 ways in my prayers to the Madonna. What do 
 you think about that, Signuri?" 
 
 "That it would probably be a waste of your val- 
 uable time." 
 
 "Well. . . . That wasn't my thought, exactly. I 
 said to myself that if I spoke of you, the Madonna 
 might not be any too pleased. One has to look out 
 what kind of language one uses before the Madonna. 
 Swearing by mistake, or mentioning 'pig,' or bringing 
 in the names of people she's not friendly with Un- 
 less, of course, to ask an apoplexy on them " 
 
 "Might get one into hot water."
 
 454 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "That's it, Signuri. So that's settled. . . . Now, 
 I think I should like to go to sleep. Since there's 
 nothing better to do." 
 
 He closed his eyes, and his childish face, sur- 
 rounded by auburn curls, soon became placid. But 
 Sebastian sat there for half an hour longer, holding 
 the small hand that Little Paganni had forgotten to 
 withdraw. 
 
 Meanwhile, on the northern cliffs, Ghirlaine was 
 looking out toward Italy. 
 
 She was surprised to find the sea still empty. 
 
 Ever since the coming of the doctors, the other 
 world, till lately as if buried forever beneath that far 
 horizon, had been creeping in across the glittering 
 waves. All morning, she had been enveloped closer 
 and closer with old influences. Was not the dream 
 on the very point of changing into reality, reality 
 about to change into the dream? 
 
 The breeze sighed through the rich-hued foliage. 
 The brilliant flowers nodded on the brink. The 
 warm sunshine lay on rock and water, gilding the 
 fantastic contours of the cliffs with an unnatural 
 splendor, painting the waves with a more poignant 
 blue than nature's. And that expanse of mobile 
 blue seemed infinite no longer, but all too narrow 
 for one who did not dare to face the future. 
 
 An hour passed. . . . 
 
 Directly hi the north, a faint smudge of smoke 
 appeared. 
 
 Another hour, in which she scarcely moved. . . . 
 
 Now she descried through the binoculars a white-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 455 
 
 hulled yacht, with yellow woodwork, that came on re- 
 lentlessly. Every moment, its black smoke was 
 whipped away and scattered, in wide-sailing films. 
 Its brass fittings flashed, as the bow went up and 
 down. On its deck were spots of black and white. 
 
 The yacht turned out, in order to make a wide de- 
 tour round the western headland. Its length was ex- 
 posed. She saw tiny figures. Perhaps half a dozen 
 in dark garments. Two hi light clothes, who stood 
 together aft. Sometimes the dark figures moved. 
 The two white figures remained motionless, close to 
 the stiff Italian flag. 
 
 She could distinguish nothing more. But she was 
 sure that one of the white figures was Sangallo. 
 
 She ran through the thickets to the villa, dizzy, 
 sick with dread, but driven by the thought that she 
 would see them clearly, when they had rounded the 
 headland. In the portico, leaning against a pillar, 
 the glasses pressed to her tumultuous bosom, she 
 waited. 
 
 Once she cast her eyes toward the village. She 
 saw, far below, Sebastian climbing the hill-path. 
 Half-way up, he turned in, and disappeared among 
 the trees. He was going to the northern cliffs. He 
 would miss sighting them. He would not know they 
 had arrived. After all, the supreme moment would 
 find him unprepared ! 
 
 The yacht rounded the headland. Now, through 
 the glasses, she saw with startling distinctness. There 
 were men in blue caps and jerseys. Two others, one 
 in white flannels, one in a light travelling-suit. The
 
 456 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 first handed a pair of binoculars to the second, who 
 raised them before his face. 
 
 The first was Sangallo. 
 
 The man in the travelling-suit lowered the 
 glasses. . . . 
 
 Her own binoculars crashed on the pavement of 
 the portico. Swaying, she caught at the pillar for 
 support. 
 
 The second man was Vincent Pamfort.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 SHE found Sebastian before the temple, on the edge 
 of the sheer precipice, staring asea. Against the 
 blue, his tall figure showed an unnatural decrepi- 
 tude, as if at last his physical powers had begun to 
 fail him. And at her approach, he turned to her a 
 face that startled her even at this moment, a face 
 suddenly older, almost ugly, dull, in which, as it 
 were, a light had been extinguished. He looked like 
 a man who had just been listening to his death- 
 warrant. 
 
 So, as she halted before him, she felt that he must 
 know already of the arrival of the rescuers. It was 
 easier, on that account, to begin her plea: 
 
 "I think I've never asked anything of you yet. 
 But now I ask you, let there be no more horrors. 
 Since they're here at last, let them come up hi peace." 
 
 He stared at her. 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 She repeated: 
 
 "Since they're here " 
 
 "Since who's here?" 
 
 "Then you haven't seen them!" 
 
 He continued to stare, almost stupidly. 
 
 "Then you haven't seen the yacht!" 
 
 For an instant, his eyes lighted terribly. His 
 voice sounded, harsh and ragged: 
 
 457
 
 458 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Sangallo! That's it?" 
 
 Nerving herself for what she had to accomplish: 
 
 "That's it. They're close to land already." 
 
 He laughed, in a way to turn her cold. 
 
 "Why, just in the nick of time!" 
 
 Beside herself, she put her hand on his arm, and 
 cried: 
 
 "No!" 
 
 He stepped back, shaking off her hand. He re- 
 coiled from her, as if he feared that touch, that first 
 voluntary contact which had ever come from her 
 to him. Then his disordered features became dull 
 again. 
 
 "So they've not yet landed?" 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 "Then we still have tune for one more talk. Let's 
 sit down somewhere. I must get off my feet. The 
 fact is, I'm done up. I've been going too long. 
 And, rather inopportunely, I've come to the reac- 
 tion." 
 
 He led the way to the temple, and seated himself 
 on one of the fallen columns that lay against the 
 mossy wall. When she still remained standing, he 
 looked up at her with a smile. 
 
 "Pardon me for being uncivilized to the last." 
 
 She made a quick gesture of distress, and glanced 
 round her apprehensively. He went on, still smiling : 
 
 "Come: humor me once more. Do you remem- 
 ber the Hunt Meeting in the Campagna, the herds- 
 man's hut, the bench by the door? You hesitated 
 then, too. I persuaded you, I think, by saying,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 459 
 
 'Kindness will never seem amiss in you.' Nor will 
 it even now, when there's so much less excuse for 
 kindness. ..." 
 
 She sat down on the fallen column, leaned forward, 
 and stared into his face. She seemed to be looking 
 not at the iron creature that had been Sebastian 
 Maure, but at another, who was crumbling to pieces 
 before her eyes. 
 
 "You're ill," she said. 
 
 "I'm worn out. What does it matter? . . . 
 
 "I only want you to know that I realize all I've 
 done. That I understand the enormity of the whole 
 thing. How far it goes beyond excuse. 
 
 "That night, in the villa, I showed you how I had 
 excused myself. I said: 'A man desires a woman. 
 Everything rises up to oppose him. He breaks 
 through all opposition and takes her. And that's 
 what every man, who has loved and been denied, 
 would do if he had the courage. . . .' 
 
 "I was a fool. I spoke knowing men, possibly, 
 but without knowing women. For I've never known 
 women. I've had something to do with them, but 
 I've never known them. For always I've gravitated 
 to the sort and they exist in every stratum of 
 society who were only what I wanted them to be. 
 And if, by any chance, another influence began 
 to change them, to make them what I didn't want 
 them to be, that was the moment when something, 
 Fate, if you will, separated our paths forever." 
 
 He paused. There rose before him the picture of 
 the great glittering state apartments in the Palazzo
 
 460 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Campobasso, the thronging guests, and Mme. Se*- 
 madeni, robed in green satin, her bosom covered with 
 emeralds, her eyes fixed on his with an inscrutable 
 sadness. And their words returned to him. "Se- 
 bastian, you are not happy. ..." "That is easily 
 remedied? . . ." " Good-night, my poor friend. . . ." 
 
 He nodded, and said aloud: 
 
 "As if it was my destiny never to learn then, from 
 personal experience, that women could be otherwise. 
 That there were some who could never be taken 
 so. . . ." 
 
 Leaning his head against the temple wall, he closed 
 his eyes. His face was colorless, and almost ghastly. 
 He seemed physically ill. But he went on, abruptly, 
 in an unnaturally distinct, hard voice: 
 
 "I knew nothing of women. Nothing! Noth- 
 ing! All my life, then* real selves had avoided me. 
 I had met with only the part of them that my bru- 
 tality wanted to meet. I had seen only the part of 
 them that my perversity wanted to see. And they 
 had shown me nothing else. Why should they? The 
 great mysteries of the sanctuaries are for those who 
 have purified themselves at the gates. And I had 
 always come in polluted. I never got farther than 
 the forecourt of that temple. . . . 
 
 "Nothing happens to us that is not of the nature 
 of ourselves. . . . 
 
 "Yet I met you! 
 
 "Why should our paths have crossed? Why, 
 when they had, shouldn't it have been as it had 
 always been before, when I'd crossed the path of a
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 461 
 
 being not of the nature of myself? For consistency's 
 sake, I ought to have passed straight on. 
 
 "And yet, I'd never known a desire for anything 
 even vaguely comparable to what I felt in that first 
 moment, in the midst of that French country-side, 
 at the Montlherys' chateau. 
 
 "And you surely felt the strength of that in me! 
 At that instant, suddenly you were badly shocked, 
 and possibly frightened. Did you feel, too, as if 
 things had all at once gone strangely wrong? As if 
 we'd had there an emotional contact that Fate should 
 never logically have produced?" 
 
 He remained silent for a while, looking before him 
 heavily at the flowers on the brink. 
 
 "Well, nothing that I've ever met with in life has 
 been consistent. Except you! . . . 
 
 "For you have always been the fixed star. 
 Through everything unchanged. And to-day I'm 
 able to appreciate that radiance for what it is. 
 Once I depreciated it, and scoffed at it, and insulted 
 it. As I see it now, I wouldn't have had you other- 
 
 wise. 
 
 it 
 
 I've found out that all men, all, must look up to 
 something, sooner or later. They can't stand not 
 doing that forever. The instinct for worship, for 
 adoration, is in the last one of us. This one wor- 
 ships a supreme God. That one some supreme form 
 of beauty. Another, a supreme exactitude of science 
 or of art. But always, sooner or later, something 
 above and beyond, that one would like to live by. 
 An ideal condition of things. An entity that ap-
 
 462 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 preaches the ideal. ... But that fixed star must 
 not grow dim, or smaller. 
 
 "Yet once I struggled with all my might to abase 
 that star! For I didn't realize what it meant, what 
 it was going to mean, or that its supreme virtue lay 
 in its great distance above me. That if I could have 
 brought it down within my reach, I should never 
 have seen so far, over so strange and wonderful a 
 country, as I've seen lately by the light of it. ... 
 
 "What a fumy life it's been! Beating at nothing 
 in a fog! Ploughing in circles in the mud! Break- 
 ing and wrecking everything, at last, to prove one's 
 self on the level of the beasts! . . . What haven't 
 you been through! And now I can't make restitu- 
 tion. . . ." 
 
 He bowed his head. His hands lay on his knees, 
 strong and yet delicate, subtly ruthless-looking yet 
 informed with nobility, like a composite of the hands 
 of many individuals. Now they lay outstretched, 
 upturned, half open, lax as it were, in their remark- 
 able expressiveness, worn fine by all their recent 
 work, incapable of returning again to their old 
 violence. 
 
 She averted her eyes from them reluctantly. He 
 was saying: 
 
 "And the worst of it is, that you have only lost, 
 while I've done nothing but gain!" 
 
 "I don't begrudge you that." 
 
 And, after pressing her handkerchief against her 
 lips: 
 
 " I'm not what I was when I first came here, either.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 463 
 
 I don't think I'm cruel any longer. I don't have 
 cruel thoughts about this time that's coming. What 
 you have to go through if I could lighten it, I would. 
 For I understand things better now. Many things." 
 
 She turned her hazy eyes toward the sea. 
 
 "Many things. ..." 
 
 He glanced up at her white profile and blowing 
 golden hair, and at her wide-staring, swimming eyes. 
 He drew in his breath, and murmured to himself: 
 
 "'And at her departure, she appeared so beautiful 
 that she seemed already to have become a soul in 
 Paradise!'" 
 
 Through the sunshine, close to the nodding flowers 
 of the brink, the bees came, darting and poising. The 
 sound of their wings was mingled with the increasing 
 murmur of the sea. In the temple, the Old Ones 
 were stirring from their sleep. Ghirlaine shivered. 
 
 "Why are we here! So close to such a place! 
 Where men have been killed! Where who knows 
 what has happened!" 
 
 "Where can we go in this world where men haven't 
 been killed, and brought to life?" 
 
 He listened. She could hear nothing save the 
 droning of the bees, the murmur of the sea, and the 
 low voices in the temple. But he exclaimed: 
 
 "Our time is up. . . . And I've told you nothing!" 
 
 "I think," she answered, faintly, "that you've told 
 me a great deal." 
 
 "I should have liked to find the words to tell you 
 everything. But no matter. Only, when you go 
 back, when you're suffering up tHere for what I've
 
 464 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 done, try not to hate me. A contrite heart! . . . 
 Perhaps, from all the unhappiness that may come to 
 you, you can, if you will, distil a certain balm by 
 means of charity? . . . 
 
 "Happiness! That's what we're all struggling 
 for, according to our lights. Remember that I, too, 
 was searching for it, in the only way that had been 
 revealed to me." 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 From the underbrush came a crackling of twigs. 
 On the rim of the little valley, amid the green leaves, 
 Annibale appeared, bareheaded, with his rifle. His 
 voice reached them, urgent, full of suppressed excite- 
 ment: 
 
 "Signuri, a new ship has come in. Two strangers 
 are climbing to the villa." 
 
 "Two?" 
 
 Sebastian looked at Ghirlaine. She said, almost 
 inaudibly: 
 
 "The other is Vincent Pamfort." 
 
 He leaned back against the wall. 
 
 "All one! Nothing matters now." 
 
 And to Annibale: 
 
 "They are friends of ours. Let them pass. Make 
 them welcome. The Signura will see them now. 
 I'll come presently." 
 
 To Ghirlaine: 
 
 "Go and meet them." 
 
 She rose, for a moment stood there trembling, then 
 turned quickly away, and went to the villa. 
 
 On the eastern end of the portico, she waited be-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 465 
 
 tween the white pillars. Her eyes were fixed on the 
 thickly wooded slope, where the hill-path wound up, 
 between the fir-trees all slanted in one direction by 
 past gales, to lose itself, from time to time, amid the 
 solemn-hued foliage of ilexes and cypresses. Not far 
 from the summit was a clearing, banked round with 
 cactus and aloes, where, hi other days, Sebastian and 
 Annibale, with weapons in their hands, had lain for 
 futile hours in ambush. Now Annibale pointed to 
 this clearing. And she saw entering it Sangallo and 
 Vincent Pamfort. 
 
 They looked up, and halted. They perceived her. 
 They came on, climbing faster. And presently they 
 reached the summit. 
 
 Sangallo was first. Walking quickly, with his 
 light, springing step, he approached her immediately, 
 yet with an effect of holding back till his keen black 
 eyes had plunged into her soul. His clear olive skin 
 was pale against his jet-black beard. He was con- 
 taining an intense emotion. 
 
 He sprang up on the portico, took her hand, and 
 bore it to his lips. At once, he stood back, and flashed 
 a swift look round him. 
 
 Vincent was standing before her. 
 
 He appeared thinner and more mature. His 
 straw-colored mustache had been clipped short. His 
 face was even more deeply tanned than formerly, 
 and now suffused with blood. His eyeballs were red. 
 Staring at her, those eyes seemed abnormal, filmy, 
 full of something that resembled panic. She could 
 hardly recognize him. He seemed like a stranger. 
 
 ___ 
 
 X* 
 
 In V
 
 466 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 And all the while that they were staring, she kept 
 thinking : " Why is he here? Why did he come here? " 
 
 And it was she who spoke first: 
 
 "Well, Vincent. . . ." 
 
 His lips moved. Standing rigid, he jerked out the 
 words, in an abrupt, strained voice that she had 
 never heard before: 
 
 " Ghirlaine ! You're all right? " 
 
 This was the meeting that she had pictured in a 
 hundred forms, but never thus! 
 
 Sangallo stepped back, so softly and slowly that 
 neither of the others noticed his withdrawal. He 
 turned to Annibale, who was standing below, his rifle 
 over his arm, close to the portico, still as a statue, his 
 smouldering eyes focussed like burning-glasses on 
 Vincent Pamfort's face. Sangallo spoke to him 
 quietly: 
 
 "Where is your master?" 
 
 Reluctantly, Annibale transferred his scrutiny to 
 Sangallo. He measured the other with deliberation 
 from head to foot. His eyes lost something of their 
 dangerous fire. 
 
 "My master is yonder." 
 
 "Take me to him." 
 
 Annibale sent one more long stare at Vincent 
 Pamfort. Then: 
 
 "Follow me, Signuri. Or rather, go in front." 
 
 And, as he directed Sangallo toward the northern 
 cliffs, coolly, without the slightest subterfuge, he 
 passed his hand over the other's clothes, and felt of 
 all his pockets.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 467 
 
 Sebastian was still sitting on the fallen column, 
 his head against the temple wall. Annibale, halting 
 before him, exclaimed, in a loud, bitter voice: 
 
 "Here is one of your friends, Signuri!" 
 
 From under his drooping eyelids Sebastian regarded 
 Sangallo with his fixed smile. 
 
 "Very well, Annibale. Leave me with this friend 
 of mine." 
 
 "I am to leave you, Signuri?" 
 
 "So I said." 
 
 The young man drew a long breath into his deep 
 chest. 
 
 " Va beni, Signuri. I will go back to the villa, to 
 your other friend, in case he should require any at- 
 tention before you come." 
 
 "Do so. And above all things, Annibale, hos- 
 pitality. A precious and ancient virtue, known even 
 to barbarians." 
 
 The outlaw departed. 
 
 Sangallo sat down beside Sebastian, and held out 
 his hand. 
 
 "My dear friend!" 
 
 To that gesture the other made no response, except 
 to say: 
 
 " Excuse me. For your own benefit. I've touched 
 no one, of late, but cholera patients. I sleep in odd 
 corners, and eat hi the street. I begin to think I 
 drip with bacilli. It's become an idee fixe with me. 
 To be sure, since the doctors came, I've drenched 
 myself with disinfectants. But the habit persists. 
 You understand."
 
 468 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Sangallo clasped his hands across his knee, and 
 stared. 
 
 "You're a sick man, Sebastian!" 
 
 "I? Not in the least. Only, one can't go on for- 
 ever. And I don't sleep when I get the chance. 
 Light the candle at both ends, you know. I'm 
 burnt out, that's all. But now that it's all finished, 
 I'll get my rest at last." 
 
 Sangallo shook his head. 
 
 "I don't like your looks at all!" 
 
 Sebastian smiled grimly. 
 
 "I'm not surprised. Who the devil does, at this 
 moment? " 
 
 "I tell you, you're a sick man!" 
 
 "Well, I'll agree with you, if you insist. I'm sick 
 to the bone of myself. For the sake of your own 
 attitude toward life, admit the possibilities of a spir- 
 itual illness. Have we two got to argue, at last, you 
 for unadulterated materialism, and I for the other 
 thing? Let's not wrangle. I'm not up to it to-day." 
 
 He considered for a while, and said: 
 
 " Here's one thing I want to get off my mind. One 
 night, she was exposed to the cholera herself. I 
 think it's all right, you know. But the time's not up 
 yet. Where are you going to take her?" 
 
 "To Naples. They'U let us in there. They've 
 still got a little cholera there, too. And Lady 
 Maude's hi Naples." 
 
 "Oh? Well, there are some good doctors in 
 Naples. Don't let her go on a ship just yet. Ship's 
 doctors I'd trust myself first! . . . That's all about
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 469 
 
 that. Just watch her. If she seems out of sorts, 
 get the jump on it. ... So Lady Maude's in 
 Naples. What about her aunt?" 
 
 "America. She'd quite given her up." 
 
 "Ah! ... By the way, Ernesto, if it's really fair 
 to ask, what made you so long in coming?" 
 
 Sangallo smoothed his black beard reflectively, and 
 hesitated. 
 
 "Ebbene, several things made me long in coming. 
 Several things very curiously interacting. . . . 
 
 "You surmised, of course, that the carabineers 
 would send in their report? You gave a Russian 
 name I presume on the spur of the moment. The 
 next moment, naturally, you knew that it would be 
 passed on to the Russian Consulate General at Rome. 
 
 " So it was, in due course of time. The Consulate 
 wrote to the Consular Agent at Tunis, and to the 
 Bureau of Passports in Saint Petersburg. And the 
 reply from the Bureau, that no such Russian was 
 travelling, came, by some error, not to the Consulate 
 General, but the Embassy. And since it was sum- 
 mer, and half the Embassy staff were away, Andreas 
 Romanovitch happened to be charge d'affaires. 
 
 "I was in Piedmont. He telegraphed to me at 
 once. My first thought was the same as his too 
 strong a coincidence not to mean something! But 
 I knew what he couldn't have known: who the man 
 might be. How it might barely have happened. 
 Incredible? But my thoughts, if you'll pardon me, 
 had flashed out toward an incredible sort of man. 
 
 "I hurried to Rome. Andreas had kept it quiet.
 
 470 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 We telegraphed to Tunis. We sent to the Marshal 
 of Carabineers, here in Torregiante, for further par- 
 ticulars. We expected our first answer in twelve 
 hours. Meanwhile, I wrote you that letter. On a 
 chance. To show you, if it was really you, that we 
 knew. As it were, to pull you up short. If possi- 
 ble, to bring you a realization of the rational world, 
 the consequences. . . . 
 
 "The twelve hours passed, and twelve more. I 
 said to Andreas, ' I can't stand this delay. I'm going 
 to Torregiante.' He was tied to the Embassy. He 
 had to let me set out alone. 
 
 "That night, in Naples, while waiting for them to 
 get ready the boat that was to bring me here, I 
 walked in the Villa Nazionale, by the sea." 
 
 He paused, and stared fixedly before him. When 
 he went on, reluctantly, his voice was lower. 
 
 "How am I going to make you understand the 
 rest? It's one of the things that aren't told, that I 
 shall probably never tell any one else but Andreas. 
 It's something that's very difficult to put into words. 
 Something for many to find unbelievable, in a sane 
 man. ... I give it to you as it happened. 
 
 "I was walking in the Villa, among the trees, with 
 the famt flash of the sea showing through them. It 
 was lonely there, quite late. Even the vagabonds 
 had dragged themselves away. 
 
 "I stopped to look through the trees, southward, 
 across the water. And presently, as I stood there, I 
 felt coming to me one of those moments that I've 
 known, not often, but oftener, I think, than most
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 471 
 
 men in the parts of the world we live in. A moment 
 of half -release from physical encumbrances, of strange 
 clairvoyance, of seeing, so to speak, into the hidden 
 heart of things. Now I felt it coming to me again, 
 that precious moment. And I told myself : ' In a little 
 while I shall know the truth.' For it had never 
 played me false. I'd learned to trust it. 
 
 " It came. There are no words to describe it, to one 
 who doesn't know. That expanse of water didn't 
 separate me any longer from knowledge, but linked 
 me with knowledge. You understand I saw nothing 
 no vision, or anything of the sort. But I felt that 
 a mute voice, from off there, had brought me that 
 far, and yet was now staying me. That there had 
 been a call for me, but that now the call was revoked. 
 That something which had wanted me at first was 
 now pleading with me, from afar and yet from very- 
 near, to come no closer. Unless I wanted to do ir- 
 reparable harm instead of good. Unless I wanted to 
 arrest something that must be developed. . . . 
 
 "It was even as if a great, overpowering denial 
 had risen up to oppose me a denial of my right to 
 carry out what I was planning. 
 
 "As I said, I learned long ago to respect the influ- 
 ence of those moments. It's not reasonable, judged 
 from our stand-points of reason. But what, after all, 
 is our reason? How far does it reach? Beyond our 
 reason there is so much that we never perceive, 
 unless at such a time, when we almost see through, 
 for one instant, into the heart of things. 
 
 "At any rate, when it had passed, my mind was
 
 472 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 changed. I returned to the harbor, and counter- 
 manded my order for the boat. I stayed in Naples. 
 I sent no word to Andreas. He wouldn't have under- 
 stood, then. 
 
 "At last, waiting in Naples, I learned there was 
 cholera hi Torregiante. Cholera! That one word 
 upset my equilibrium. It intruded on my convic- 
 tion, and gave me terrible doubts. If I had held 
 fast, even then, I should only have been obeying the 
 dictates of that moment in the Villa Nazionale. But 
 I couldn't hold fast any longer. Cholera! And I 
 knew what such islands were. Cholera! I came 
 back to earth. I became like any man. I saw my- 
 self a wild fool, a madman, a murderer. Still, even 
 while I was telegraphing to Pamfort, I kept say- 
 ing to myself: 'You are doing wrong! -You are 
 disobeying the moment that has never betrayed you.' 
 My mind continued to be a battle-field till he ar- 
 rived. . . . And all the time, as we approached 
 this island, I kept repeating: 'Too soon! Too 
 soon! 
 
 His voice had grown husky; finally it failed him. 
 
 "And now, God forgive me, I know it!" 
 
 Sebastian's eyes were closed. At first, Sangallo 
 wondered if he could be asleep. But presently he 
 murmured: 
 
 "Curious. . . . You must use that bit some day." 
 
 Sangallo turned round and laid his hand on the 
 temple wall. 
 
 "Who's inside this place!" 
 
 "No one."
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 473 
 
 "I hear voices." 
 
 "Natural phenomenon. Waves. Echo-well. Ev- 
 erything explicable. Matter and its aberrations. ..." 
 
 His face was distorted. He made an effort to get 
 up, sank back, and finally stood upright, unsteady, 
 his cheeks glistening with sweat. 
 
 Sangallo caught him round the shoulder. 
 
 "What you need is a doctor!" 
 
 "Nonsense. Let's get to the house. He'll want 
 a few words with me before he goes. Let's have it 
 over with. ."
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 GHIRLAINE was alone with Vincent in the portico. 
 
 Strangely detached from the event she had so 
 greatly feared, she had led him to the wicker chairs. 
 "Come," she had said, "sit down." And to herself: 
 "I suppose I must tell him, I suppose I owe it to 
 him, and to myself, to tell him how it all happened." 
 So, as if recounting the story of another woman who 
 had ceased to exist, she told him of her coming to 
 Torregiante. And all the while, watching his face, 
 which had grown strange to her, she had realized 
 he was quite unable to perceive the motives that 
 had shaped those hours, and that she was unable, 
 or unwilling, to force him to perceive them. 
 
 Their origin lay in regions that he had never passed 
 through, that he would never approach. His face, 
 mobile enough for once, a prey to misery, fury, and 
 bewilderment, expressed comprehension only of the 
 enormity and outrage of the thing no slightest ap- 
 preciation of its causes. For him it was just a night- 
 mare, of which there ought to be no counterpart in 
 life. And she, who had felt at first as he was feeling 
 now, but had learned of late almost to understand, 
 kept thinking, while her lips went on with that tale : 
 "Why do I tell him? To understand, one must have 
 felt. And it is not necessary that he should under- 
 stand. . . ." 
 
 474
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 475 
 
 For unconsciously her telling had nearly grown 
 into an apology for the other. 
 
 She stopped. A long silence ensued. From the 
 beds of sweet-marjoram and thyme, on the bright- 
 hued terrace, came the humming of wild bees. And 
 that music seemed to her still to accompany the 
 words: "I too was searching for it, in the only way 
 that had been revealed to me." 
 
 But this one could never thrill with pity at the 
 poignancy of that confession! . . . 
 
 " Good God! What a thing for you to have gone 
 through!" 
 
 His eyes grew redder. His clenched hands trem- 
 bled. In a whisper: 
 
 "What a blackguard! What an unspeakable 
 blackguard!" 
 
 He sprang to his feet, his lean figure quiver- 
 ing, and went quickly to the eastern end of the 
 portico. 
 
 "Where is he now?" 
 
 Some distance off, under the trees, Annibale was 
 squatting, in the attitude of a seated Arab, on the 
 grass. His rifle lay across his knees. With caress- 
 ing fingers, he was softly working the breech-lock 
 back and forth. He looked up, and fixed his eyes 
 steadily on the "foreigner." Very gently his right 
 hand went round the rifle-lock, and grasped the trig- 
 ger. His eyes became blank. His young, savagely 
 handsome face turned slowly older-looking, and 
 coldly cruel. 
 
 "Come back," said Ghirlaine in level tones.
 
 476 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Come back here, Vincent. Sit down. We're not 
 through, yet, with this." 
 
 "That ruffian, that ragamuffin under the 
 trees " 
 
 She called: 
 
 "Annibale?" 
 
 Annibale, still staring at the stranger, answered, 
 calmly: 
 
 " Sissignura." 
 
 "What are you doing?" 
 
 "I am breathing the air, Signura." 
 
 "Please go away." 
 
 Her voice broke. 
 
 "Sissignura." 
 
 But he continued in the same attitude, as if carved 
 out of dark-brown wood, staring unwinkingly at 
 Vincent. 
 
 "Vincent. . . . Vincent!" 
 
 He returned to her, and stood biting the short ends 
 of his mustache. 
 
 "Sit down." 
 
 He remained standing, erect, slim, rigid, one hand 
 on his hip. 
 
 "What is it?" he said, in a low, steady voice. 
 "Have we walked into a trap? What's become of 
 Sangallo?" 
 
 "Nothing will happen, Vincent. I have his word 
 that nothing will happen." 
 
 "His word!" 
 
 He laughed. She flashed a strange look at him, 
 then closed her eyes. After a while:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 477 
 
 "Won't you tell me at least about my aunt?" 
 
 He started and flushed deeply. 
 
 "Forgive me, Ghirlaine. . . . She's gone home. 
 She still thinks you were lost in the sea. As we all 
 thought. . . . What a terrible time for us that was! 
 Almost as terrible " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He pulled himself together. Standing very 
 straight, his face expressionless, his eyes suffused, he 
 got out, in a strained voice: 
 
 "You've been the victim of terrible circumstances. 
 Of incredible things. Such things as don't happen. 
 That turn the world upside down. But . . . How 
 shall I say it? . . ." 
 
 He was struggling hard for expression. He was 
 trying with all his powers to rise to this moment. 
 She knew his nature, his inheritance, his past en- 
 vironment, all that was trying to prevent him from 
 rising to this moment. And she felt a great com- 
 passion, an intense desire to relieve him of his task. 
 Yet she knew that he must go on, and say what he 
 was trying to say, in order that she might answer 
 him. She remained silent, looking up at him, watch- 
 ing his struggle, full of pity. 
 
 She heard him stammering: 
 
 "It seems that such things really come about in 
 life, and that we must meet them. The situations 
 created for us, whether by madmen or not we must 
 meet them. In a way fitting and proper. We find 
 we have duties that we never thought to have. And 
 somehow, we drive through. . . . That's what you 
 and I must try to do."
 
 478 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 He drew in his breath sharply. 
 
 "I don't know just how we're going to make it. 
 I can't see ahead who can? But one thing at a 
 time; and let the rest wait till we come to it. We'll 
 go back: that's understood, of course. We'll try to 
 begin as we were going to begin, as if nothing had 
 happened. How we'll make out, who can say? I 
 don't mean between ourselves. It's the others. ..." 
 
 For an instant his features were quite disorganized. 
 He regained control of them. 
 
 "It's the others, naturally. . . ." 
 
 He squared his shoulders, and raised his chin, in a 
 defiance that cost him she knew well how much. 
 And his voice rang out: 
 
 "Let them all go hang! We'll drive through it, 
 and judge what's right for ourselves!" 
 
 He had reached perhaps the finest moment of his 
 life. 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. She turned away, to 
 look across the sea, westward, as she had looked 
 so often, with such longing, in those first days on 
 Torregiante. She shook her head. 
 
 "No, Vincent. Never that. You are brave. 
 You are very brave, even though you can't know, 
 to-day, all that you're braving. But I shall never 
 call your bravery to a harder test. You must go 
 back to England alone. You must return to the 
 rational world, and be a part of it, unimpaired in any 
 way for intercourse with it. For by the force of des- 
 tiny you've always been, and you always must be, a 
 part of it. You have a splendid name to hand on. 
 It's come to you out of a rational world. It must
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 479 
 
 be passed on unaltered by contact with another 
 sort. You'll marry there, safely, in the midst of 
 that world, a woman who has never emerged from 
 it. Such a woman's going to be Countess of Lem- 
 ster, and the mother of your children. . . . Perhaps 
 I know whom. Do you remember a ride of ours in 
 the Borghese Gardens, and your telling me of the 
 girl you thought you loved, before you met me?" 
 
 His face grew pale. What unexpected blow had 
 she dealt there? 
 
 "But now that I've found you still on the earth, 
 am I to resign myself to losing you again?" 
 
 Under her breath, she answered: 
 
 "Did you ever really have me?" 
 
 Aloud, however, only the response, as her thoughts 
 went back to the northern cliffs: 
 
 " Some of us have to give up much, to escape from 
 life-long misery. ..." 
 
 Doggedly he muttered: 
 
 "I can't take that answer, here and now, you 
 know. You're beyond yourself here. Later " 
 
 "No, Vincent." 
 
 He looked down toward the harbor. 
 
 "The boat's waiting, steam up. How long will it 
 take you to get ready?" 
 
 "I have nothing to get ready," she answered. 
 
 She gazed round her, at the far-sweeping amphi- 
 theatre of Torregiante, the great golden-brown peaks, 
 the gray-green wooded slopes, the dazzling crescent 
 of the village far below. The Isle of Life! But not 
 as she had learned to know it. For now the world
 
 480 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 of up there had pervaded it and altered it. Its vivid 
 naturalness had become unreal. Its old influences, 
 the secret influences that had been like sentient 
 phantoms, ever gliding closer, through sunlight as 
 well as starlight, were all withdrawing, before this 
 uncomprehending, alien invasion. 
 
 "Then we go now?" he asked. 
 
 "As you wish. . . ." 
 
 And, at those words of hers, the soul of Torre- 
 giante seemed to have completed its withdrawal. 
 
 Then they saw Annibale on his feet beneath the 
 trees, looking from them toward the northern thick- 
 ets, and back again. Sangallo and Sebastian were 
 approaching. 
 
 Midway between the thickets and the villa, Sebas- 
 tian halted in the open. With an effort, he squared 
 his shoulders, and looked at Ghirlaine and Vincent 
 with his old calmness and inscrutability. He stood 
 there, in the sunlit grassy clearing, like a man stand- 
 ing in a prison court-yard, his peace made, beyond 
 the touch of every form of recrimination, waiting to 
 be shot. 
 
 Sangallo came forward quickly. He was looking 
 at Ghirlaine, and in that look appeared something 
 like an intense appeal for pardon. With a jerk, 
 Vincent transferred his red stare from Sebastian to 
 Sangallo. 
 
 "We go at once." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Ghirlaine!" 
 
 She nodded, perfectly white. Almost inaudibly:
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 481 
 
 " First I must say good-by to the people who have 
 been kind to me." 
 
 She went into the house. 
 
 "I am going away, Fannia." 
 
 But when she took the baby into her arms, the 
 tears began to rain. 
 
 "Good-by. . . . Good-by. . . ." 
 
 She kissed the little neck, and Fannia's cheeks. 
 She paused at the door of her own room. The night 
 of the tempest returned to her. And the night of the 
 cholera mob. And all the other nights. An empty 
 room, bare, poor, but thronged with how many 
 strange, new things! 
 
 "Good-by. . . ." 
 
 Fannia was weeping, violently, savagely, in a wild 
 abandonment to amazed despair. Ghirlaine had 
 finally to leave her so, crouching on her knees against 
 the wall, the baby pressed tight against her breast, 
 racked by long, shivering cries: 
 
 "Oh, Madrecidda! . . . Oh, Madrecidda! . . ." 
 
 "Good-by, Annibale. . . ." 
 
 His bewildered eyes searched hers. He made no 
 reply. But she felt that a faithful dog would look just 
 so, when left without explanation for the last tune. 
 
 Her gaze turned to Sebastian. She went toward 
 him suddenly across the grass. 
 
 Vincent made one step; but Sangallo took him by 
 the arm. So, when she stood before the other, none 
 were close enough to hear their words. 
 
 "Good-by." 
 
 His glistening face was covered with a bluish pal-
 
 482 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 lor, cut deeply with new lines the visage of a soul, 
 and of a body, in torment. But at her words, his 
 eyes brightened with a great light. 
 
 "You forgive me!" 
 
 His mouth twitched spasmodically, as he looked 
 down into that transfigured countenance of hers. 
 
 "Yes. I must forgive you." 
 
 "I know. To be yourself." 
 
 "Good-by. . . ." 
 
 She returned to the others. 
 
 "Come, then," said Sangallo to Vincent Pamfort. 
 But that one, setting his jaws, responded: 
 
 "Not till I've had my word with him. Not till 
 he knows I'm coming back, as soon as we've taken 
 her to Naples." 
 
 Sangallo smiled sadly, as he glanced from Vincent 
 to Sebastian. 
 
 "When you come back not now. I'm returning, 
 too, as soon as possible. You can come with me, if 
 you like." 
 
 The three descended the hillside. 
 
 When they had nearly reached the clearing on the 
 slope, Sebastian came to the edge, with heavy feet, 
 and stood watching them. The light coats, the 
 white dress, showed through the trees. They trav- 
 ersed the clearing without looking back. Presently 
 they emerged on the lower hillside strewn with bowl- 
 ders. At last, they crossed the esplanade. A rowing- 
 boat took them to the yacht. 
 
 From the portico, he watched the white yacht 
 round the headland.
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 483 
 
 From the northern cliffs he saw it grow small on 
 the bright water, and finally vanish. 
 
 She was gone. 
 
 He made his way back toward the villa. Half-way 
 through the thickets his will power collapsed, and he 
 began to stagger. For a time he stood still, gripping 
 the thick vines all festooned with roses, striving to 
 keep erect, grinding his teeth together. After a long 
 while, he went on, leaning forward, his mouth open, 
 gasping, his face streaming, his body shaken by tre- 
 mors. 
 
 On the summit, he lurched to the left, and plunged 
 down the hill-path toward the village. 
 
 His shoulders carromed from the tree-trunks. 
 The roots and rocks caught at his feet, and sent him 
 stumbling. He went on at a sort of shambling run, 
 to keep from sinking down. 
 
 Near the end of the descent, he crashed forward 
 on his knees. Everything whirled round, and dis- 
 appeared in darkness. Through the darkness he 
 saw strange shapes and faces, grotesque yet half 
 familiar, repulsive and beautiful by turns, and al- 
 ways changing. For ages he knelt there, arms stiff, 
 his knuckles braced against the rocks, while those 
 altering shapes, at once ghastly and exquisite, fair 
 and loathsome, thronged about him. 
 
 "The shapes of old crimes. . . ." 
 
 Suddenly, he shouted: 
 
 "Not here, like a dog! . . ." 
 
 He gathered together all his strength for one last 
 effort, such as perhaps not another man in a hundred
 
 484 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 could have put forth then. He wrenched himself 
 erect, swayed forward, and went on, with outspread 
 arms, going blind on his feet, the village before him 
 rising into the skies, then sinking back to earth. 
 
 He was on the esplanade. A patch of white at- 
 tracted him. Many people were running and chat- 
 tering. Some cried out at him. 
 
 The patch of white drew near. He perceived, in 
 the midst of whirling lights, a long nose, and the gray 
 mustaches and peaked beard of a cavalier. An arm 
 strove to hold him up, but he kept sinking down. 
 
 He heard his own voice muttering: 
 
 "I've got it. . . . Give me a bed. . . . No opium. 
 . . . That's exploded. ... In the Hamburg epi- 
 demic. . . ." 
 
 He dropped through the doctor's arms, and rolled 
 out his full length on the esplanade. A hush de- 
 scended. It seemed unbelievable to all, shocking, 
 as it were against reason, that this great figure should 
 be lying flat, at last, like any other. 
 
 They carried him to the parish-house: and all Tor- 
 regiante followed behind the stretcher.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 ONE afternoon, almost two months from the day 
 of her departure, Sebastian Maure, bony and still 
 colorless in his white flannels, was sitting in a wicker 
 long-chair, in the portico of the villa on the western 
 headland of Torregiante, reading a letter from San- 
 gallo. It was steam-ship day: and Annibale had just 
 brought this missive up from town, with another, 
 postmarked "Constantinople," which Sebastian had 
 not yet opened. The mail delivered, the young man, 
 finding that his master required nothing, had gone 
 round the house to join Fannia and the baby. 
 
 At that moment old Ilario was visiting on the hill- 
 top, as befitted a father-in-law of three weeks' legal 
 standing. He had brought up a cake, prepared in 
 the Syndic's cook-shop, covered with daubs of pink 
 and lilac sugar, and inscribed, for no apparent rea- 
 son, in sugar writing, "Ewiva Maria Vergine" Now 
 he was feeding small fragments of this confection to 
 the baby, while drowning out his daughter's protests 
 with profanity. 
 
 "Blood of all the Saints! And what do you know 
 about the needs of children? A hen hatched one 
 chicken and said to the goats: 'Eccu! I am full of 
 experience. In the spring, if you need a wise head, 
 call on me ! " 
 
 " But, babba, I tell you that sugar and jelly aren't 
 good for such little stomachs." 
 
 485
 
 486 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "Mah! And what did you eat at his age? At 
 his age, your stomach was a museum! Here a pink 
 piece! Is it good? It ought to be. It cost me 
 nearly a lira, and a good half-hour of bargaining 
 with a proper brigand!" 
 
 "No more, babba, for charity!" 
 
 "What's the matter with you? The name of the 
 Blessed Virgin is written all over it ! What harm can 
 it do him then, anyway? Sacrilegious hussy! Now 
 leave me alone, for God's sake, or I'll have to take 
 a hand to you. This is my grandson." 
 
 Sebastian returned to his letter. 
 
 I am at work again, fortified by those long talks of ours in 
 Torregiante during your convalescence, full of gladness at the 
 thought that if I had not returned to you as soon as I did, noth- 
 ing might have roused in you the determination to pull through. 
 For a long time, I had felt a powerful inclination to be of service 
 to you. I had, all the while, an impression that such a time 
 must come. This is one more of those inexplicable things. . . . 
 
 In respect of another, I had the same feeling, in Rome, during 
 the season, before all this came about. Have I failed on that 
 side? Must I always reproach myself that I acted a poor party 
 perhaps a monstrous part, toward her, in listening, as long as I 
 did, to what I told you of, that day of my first arrival ? The two 
 dilemmas were interwoven so closely. At one moment it would 
 seem as if I had not arrived nearly soon enough ; at another, as 
 if I'd arrived too soon. Who knows, as yet ? Nothing is ever 
 finished. 
 
 She is in France. I must tell you that poor Mrs. Bellamy, 
 who met her there, is dead. She died in Paris of ptomaine- 
 poisoning. She had insisted on eating some oysters imported 
 from America. One might say that she succumbed a martyr to 
 her persistent patriotism. Poor woman, I am not making a
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 487 
 
 jest about it. It is Fate that is the grim jester, in planting in us 
 front the first the predilections, however trifling some of them 
 may seem, that bring us gradually but inexorably to our supreme 
 crises. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Bellamy is buried in Pere-Lachaise Cemetery, and her 
 niece is with the Montlherys, now, at their chateau. 
 
 She has sent Lemster back to England. I understand she has 
 no more close relations left. She must be so lonely; though in 
 the letter I had from her, telling of Mrs. Bellamy's death, she 
 said nothing of that. . . . 
 
 Don Livio Campobasso is still across the Channel. On the 
 Twelfth, he went up into Scotland for the shooting. Princess 
 Betty has been on the Lake of Garda, much by herself. (Did I 
 tell you that Tito made it right with his Colonel, and that his regi- 
 ment has gone to Brescia ?) Well, at Garda, who should drop in 
 from the clouds to take tea with Princess Betty but Mme. Sema- 
 deni. She was on her way, as she told me afterward in Turin, 
 from Florence to Milan. A roundabout way! At any rate, she 
 stayed not only to tea, but two days longer. The morning after 
 she left, Princess Campobasso set out for Scotland. She joined 
 Don Livio there, and they are together there now. What a good 
 woman that Russian is, beneath her affectation of languor and 
 melancholy ! A nd, for that matter, under Don Livio' s impassive- 
 ness tJtere must be more of unconventional comprehension than 
 one might think. 
 
 But there is stranger news than that. Andreas Romanovitch 
 is going to marry Donna Dora Brazzazza. 
 
 He discovered at last that the poor child was in love with him. 
 And, as he wrote me from the Brazzazzas' place in Umbria, she 
 had seen so much in life, from her wheel-chair, that she could 
 never have! " // was," according to him, " the supreme chance for 
 a worthless fellow to justify his existence. Besides," he told me, 
 " I was ripe for the gentle, almost incorporeal comradeship that 
 offered itself tfiere. In serving that white little lily, I shall surely 
 regain the age of innocence. To have fallen in love with inviO' 
 lable purity is a miracle far greater than I deserved." 
 
 So, at least, he says, in his first exaltation. I am not saying he
 
 488 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 will fed just so always or for very long I Or, indeed, that he will 
 need to! For Donna Dora is rather marvellously changing since 
 the engagement. It would seem as if new powers had begun to 
 flow to her simultaneously with that new joy. She is stronger: 
 and just the other day, between Don Giulio and Mme. de Chau- 
 mont, for a moment she stood erect, without faltering. What 
 was it ? Resignation giving way before the roused fundamental 
 forces? Her will to be a wife? It may go no farther, of 
 course. But at Lourdes, for instance, strange things have been 
 accomplished by a supreme, intrinsically right desire of the 
 heart. 
 
 In effect, we live in a miraculous world. 
 
 Write to me about how you are doing, and what you intend to 
 do. . . . 
 
 Sebastian laid the letter in his lap, and looked out 
 on Torregiante. 
 
 Heights and lowlands, all softly mellow in the after- 
 noon sunshine, lay drowsing in siesta. The groves 
 formed round the amphitheatre of the slopes a great 
 zone of peaceful, immobile green. Below, about the 
 semicircle of the beach, the village, freed of all alien 
 influences, itself once more, curved like a golden chain 
 against the sapphire sea from which every flaw was 
 smoothed away. And the intense silence of Nature 
 a silence not of emptiness, but of a teeming, yet 
 ineffably subtle and serene activity rose round the 
 headland like the mute expression of a limitless Soul. 
 
 Presently, from the northern uplands, came a faint 
 droning. He had heard that sound frequently of 
 late. The hermit was walking in the groves, and 
 singing as he walked. . . . 
 
 He got up slowly from his chair, and entered the 
 house. At the threshold of her room, he paused,
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 489 
 
 swung the door open, and looked in. Everything 
 was as if she had just left it. Her dresses hung 
 against the walls, enshrouded with figured chintz. 
 The chest of drawers was laid with glistening toilet 
 articles in orderly array. On the bed was spread 
 Fannia's coperta del letto malrimoniale. The candle- 
 sticks held new candles, the fireplace a heap of resin- 
 ous boughs. And there were fresh flowers by the 
 mirror the sorts she had touched most often on 
 the terrace. 
 
 He shut the door gently on this garnished place 
 of memories, and returned to the long-chair in the 
 portico. Presently he remembered the letter from 
 Constantinople. 
 
 It was written on half a sheet of cross-barred cafe 
 paper, in ill-spelled French. 
 
 I have the honor to inform Monsieur that the letters to Dis- 
 nisius Pappachzistos were evidently not answered by him because 
 not called for, as he is lately deceased in Balikisri, at the hands of 
 an old friend, a rich man, who has proved self-defence to the satis- 
 faction of the law. 
 
 Hoping to serve Monsieur another time again, with humble evi- 
 dences of my most distinguished consideration, N. Fahreddin, 
 Manager of Cafe Osmanlie, new management and chef, private 
 rooms lately refurnished. 
 
 "So Disnisius, the matchlessly anticipating ser- 
 vant to the end, anticipated even his dismissal!" 
 
 He tore up the note, and dropped the fragments 
 into the bottle-socket of the long-chair. He looked 
 up, to see Don Vigilio's unkempt flat beaver hat ris- 
 ing to the hilltop.
 
 490 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 Jumping to his feet, Sebastian hurried forward, 
 and took the old man by the hands. 
 
 "But what are you thinking of, Padre! So long 
 a climb, in the very heat of the day!" 
 
 When the priest had sat down, mopped his fore- 
 head and tonsure with a bandanna handkerchief, and 
 recovered his breath, he answered: 
 
 "My son, I heard that letters had come for you. 
 In our village, we're such incorrigible busybodies! 
 I thought you might have got news of the great 
 world up yonder. Some sort of good news, per- 
 haps." 
 
 He peered at Sebastian out of his watery eyes, 
 his perpetual thin smile somewhat unsteady. 
 
 "So I said to myself, 'No exertion could be too 
 much, that leads to the sharing of good news? ' ' 
 
 "Well, you were right. There was good news in 
 my letter." 
 
 "And?" 
 
 Sebastian shook his head. 
 
 "I'm afraid you're thinking again of the impos- 
 sible." 
 
 They were silent. 
 
 Don Vigilio blew his nose emphatically. 
 
 "I have a message for you from Little Paganni." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Here it is: 'Tell my friend the Signuri that my 
 birthday is to-morrow. We're going to have meat 
 to eat. If he cares to look in, let him say so without 
 compliment, and I'll borrow another plate from fat 
 Maria.'"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 491 
 
 Sebastian laughed outright for the first time in 
 two months. 
 
 " He said that? Little rascal ! And so I will, with 
 a cake of seven pink candles, and frosted-sugar or- 
 naments hi the Syndic's best manner! . . . Padre, 
 what are we going to do with that boy?" 
 
 "We must give him his chance, to be sure. We 
 must show him where the world stands, these days. 
 Then we must let him choose his place in it." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose we must let him choose that for 
 himself!" 
 
 "Have no fear. One who has really been shown 
 that truth always chooses well." 
 
 Out from the harbor, across the clear blue water, 
 a small sail-boat was gliding, its lateen-sail translu- 
 cent amber, its hull and spars pale-blue. Close to 
 its bow, on the azure hull, there showed a dot of 
 white a painted eye, so that the fragile craft could 
 safely see its way. Just so the boats of the ancients 
 had been adorned, in the far-off dawn of civilization. 
 In Torregiante, little, after all, had changed in all 
 those centuries. 
 
 Said Sebastian: 
 
 "It is, indeed, one of the back-waters of the world, 
 that the current has passed by. But if it hadn't 
 been so, then the something different that it contains 
 wouldn't be here still, to reach us others? A curious 
 thing, that those who have always been here never 
 feel it, that one must have come from without for 
 that!" 
 
 "There is nothing we are so ignorant of as what 
 we have always lived with."
 
 492 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 The pale-blue sail-boat glided on toward the open 
 sea. In the glassy, deep-blue water it left a waver- 
 ing thin wake, of lighter hue, of the color of itself. 
 Watching it, Don Vigilio mused: 
 
 " So we go on and on, leaving our unsteady wake, 
 into the infinite. All our idleness in becalmments, 
 all our tossing in tempests, have been incidents, to 
 try us. We are the unsinkable vessel, the unalter- 
 able, immortal ship, always emerging, always faring 
 on into the infinite. It isn't we who can see that har- 
 bor yet, for all our painted eyes. But we go toward 
 it, nevertheless. We go toward it, that is certain!" 
 
 His quavering voice ceased the voice of a gen- 
 tleman, uttering those words with the accent and 
 intonation of Rome, of the great world even, of 
 regions of high birth and cultivation. Who had he 
 been? Why was he here? 
 
 Sebastian fancied that he knew at least why Don 
 Vigilio was here. But who he had been no doubt 
 he would never know. He would never ask : and the 
 old priest would hardly be likely to enlighten him. 
 
 "At any rate," said Sebastian, "now for a while 
 we'll go forward without much wavering. We know 
 what we have to do, here in Torregiante. You have 
 tried. But we live in a material world, and our 
 bodies and their welfare must be the foundation for 
 the rest. For that part, fortunately I happen to be 
 rich." 
 
 He waved his hand toward the village. 
 
 "We must change all that. To begin with, we 
 must teach these people how to live physically. I 
 owe the first respectable work of my life to Torre-
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 493 
 
 giante, for in Torregiante I first learned what money 
 and brains are meant for. Afterward ... But one 
 thing at a time." 
 
 Then, for a long while they talked of practical 
 things. The afternoon drew on. The rocky heights 
 began to assume a warmer light. On the terrace, 
 among the flowers, the bees were finishing their busi- 
 ness. The old man leaned back in his chair and 
 sighed. 
 
 "How beautiful it is up here! I hardly have the 
 heart to forego the sunset." 
 
 "You're going to stay on to dinner. Ilario will 
 take word to the parish-house that you're not com- 
 ing. This evening, when the moon is up, Annibale 
 will see you home." 
 
 "Well, I don't say no. The sunset from this 
 headland " 
 
 "And a mullet baked in onions, mushrooms, and 
 tomatoes " 
 
 "Eh, tempter! That wasn't necessary but it 
 settles it." 
 
 "And now I'll leave you to a nap. You might 
 read yourself to sleep. Here's Kant, and Sainte- 
 Beuve, and Anatole France, and Flaubert, and Car- 
 lyle, and Spinoza, and Alphonse Allais." 
 
 "Diamine! . . . What would you say if I chose 
 Anatole France?" 
 
 "Good enough! So, arrividirci." 
 
 11 Arrividirci, my friend." 
 
 Sebastian went out into the ruddy sunset. 
 
 He took the path through the tangle of tree-
 
 494 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 limbs, vines, and roses to the northern side. He 
 walked along the cliff-path, came to the little valley, 
 approached the temple. 
 
 From round it the sunlight had withdrawn already. 
 The enclosing foliage, its upper part still filtering the 
 crimson light, was thick, below, with purple shadows. 
 The ancient ruin, hazy behind the first diaphanous 
 veils of dusk, raised its mossy walls and flower- 
 covered roof, softened to serious hues of green and 
 violet, like something familiar yet wonderfully new, 
 worn yet imperishable. Silence enclosed it. The 
 birds, the bees, the breeze, were gone. From the 
 purple-black doorway no slightest sound came forth. 
 The voices of the Old Ones were still. 
 
 After a time, he went inside. Total darkness en- 
 veloped him: but he did not strike a light. 
 
 He stood before the low altar to "the Unknown 
 God," grasping its edges, looking up toward where 
 the inscription was carved across the wall. And, as 
 though his eyes could read it, he repeated once more: 
 
 "To reach my altar, that part of you which you 
 have loved best must be destroyed." 
 
 Had he not done that, indeed? 
 
 And from the ashes of that destruction had there 
 not risen a fair, white thing, that did not pass away, 
 but hovered before him, in light and darkness, con- 
 tinually, like the reflection of a star? 
 
 "But when shall I be satisfied to see only the re- 
 flection? Never?" 
 
 The echoes sprang back at him: 
 
 "Never!"
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 495 
 
 And, in the midst of the darkness, he seemed to 
 see Saint Giosue, as in the antique painting in the 
 church, clad in a rough brown robe, but with an ex- 
 pression which that painting did not show an ex- 
 pression of bafflement and failure. And the lips of 
 Saint Giosue seemed to move, and utter, in the voice 
 of old John Elzevir: 
 
 "Man is but a part of himself, and woman is the 
 other part. For that is Nature. ..." 
 
 And the sanctuary was suddenly, as it were, 
 thronged with thoughts in affirmation, with the 
 thoughts of innumerable presences as if the minds 
 of a myriad departed beings had been conjured back 
 by this illumination, to confirm it, in this spot where 
 they had reached then* highest exaltations, their 
 most sublime and true perceptions. 
 
 Then, after a while, he became aware that he was 
 not alone. 
 
 Some one was standing near him in the darkness. 
 
 A voice, low and tremulous : 
 
 "Sebastian?" 
 
 He whirled round, his heart in his throat. Two 
 hands found his arms, and held them fast. A fault 
 perfume reached him, how poignantly familiar! 
 
 And the low tremulous voice spoke again out of the 
 darkness : 
 
 " I went to the villa. . . . Only Don Vigilio asleep. 
 . . . Something told me you had come here. . . . 
 I was alone. I had come all the way alone. No one 
 knew I was coming. No one knows where I am. . . . 
 No one knows what I have in my heart.
 
 496 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 "The * rational world'! It's up there, across the 
 sea. I couldn't stay in it. They were good, but 
 like shadows kind shadows, that I hardly saw or 
 heard. All the while I saw the rocks and the jungles 
 thick with roses, and the sunset on the peaks this 
 other world, the 'irrational world,' that seemed to 
 me the only rational one. The color and sounds and 
 scents of the place where one awoke at last! For it 
 was here that I awoke. 
 
 " But even from the beginning ! From the first mo- 
 ment! Something stirred hi me. And I was horri- 
 fied, and fought against it. Yet that was necessary 
 all the uprising of defence, all the struggling, and 
 the long reluctance. It was all necessary. Other- 
 wise, there would have been no change. And we 
 were meant from the beginning to change each other. 
 To awaken each other. To make each other live. 
 ... So we were brought here, to this Isle of 
 Life. 
 
 "Up there I understood it at last. I realized that 
 I'd found what I had always been seeking. That 
 all the anguish had only been leading me on toward 
 it. That we're like little children, learning painfully, 
 who can't see the object of their lessons, or the re- 
 ward. . . . 
 
 "All my life I've felt that in the world there's but 
 one man for one woman, one woman for one man. 
 That they two should meet, at last, as if on a wind- 
 swept mountain-top, all the world's ignoble rumors 
 inaudible far below. 
 
 "The world! The world's what we choose it to
 
 THE ISLE OF LIFE 497 
 
 be. Above a certain point, there is no need of cour- 
 age. One feels a touch of immortality. One greets 
 one's destiny with open arms." 
 
 Her arms went round his neck. He felt her warm 
 breath on his face. He heard her whispering: 
 
 " I love you. While I hated you I loved you. All 
 the while, there was something in you reaching out 
 toward me, something, amid all the rest, that was 
 different from the rest, that my soul seemed to rec- 
 ognize beneath its encumbrances, that I was forced 
 to love. And as the encumbrances began to fall 
 away, as that part of you stood forth more clearly, 
 I loved you more. And at last I saw nothing else. 
 Only that. . . . 
 
 "Now I love you completely." 
 
 Her lips reached his. She clung to him like a 
 creature all afire. She had, indeed, awaked at last. 
 The world dissolved; and they rose together into the 
 eternal spaces. . . . 
 
 Outside the temple, night had fallen. The trees 
 stood forth hi drooping silhouettes of purple against 
 the water. Toward the horizon, the sea disappeared 
 in silvery blankness, in which a black spot, the little 
 fishing-boat, appeared and vanished, appeared and 
 vanished. Close together, they still watched for it, 
 when the sea had faded and concealed it. And at 
 last, near where they had last seen it, a tiny point of 
 flame glowed forth. 
 
 "It still goes forward." 
 
 "Yes, it still goes forward. . . ." 
 
 They returned to the villa.
 
 498 THE ISLE OF LIFE 
 
 In the dusky portico, Don Vigilio was sleeping, 
 his calm old face upturned, his hands open, the book 
 slipping from his knees. Sebastian looked into her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Shall we wake him?" 
 
 She shook her head, and they went down through 
 the black roses of the terrace to the brink. 
 
 Lights were springing up in Torregiante village. 
 Round the beach they formed a glittering crescent. 
 Never had the innumerable southern stars appeared 
 more brilliant. Behind the thin, black bell- tower of 
 the church the moon was rising. 
 
 "The heavens are putting out their highest beauty 
 for your home-coming." 
 
 The first moonbeams, reaching across sea and land, 
 rested on her face. 
 
 " My home-coming ! " 
 
 Pressing against his arm, she murmured, in a voice 
 choked with tears: 
 
 "Our Isle! If only all could find their Isle!" 
 
 And presently: 
 
 "I think they will. Sooner or later. Surely, all 
 must find it, sooner or later? ..." 
 
 When the moon stood higher, and everywhere was 
 soft enchantment, they went back slowly, through 
 veils of silver, to the villa.
 

 
 
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