Margherita, he openly declares that I covet your riches."
The Countess joined in the laughter at this, and Norvin could only say:
"I had not met you then, Signorina."
"He was quite serious, nevertheless, and predicted that marriage would end our friendship, arguing that supreme happiness is but another term for supreme selfishness."
"At least I did not question the certainty of your happiness."
The girl spoke up gravely:
"I don't agree with you, Signor Blake. I should hate to think it will make us selfish. It seems to me that such—love as we share will make us very good and sweet and generous."
When she spoke of love she hesitated and lowered her eyes until the quivering lashes swept her cheeks, but no flush of embarrassment followed. Norvin realized that with all her reserve she could not blush, had probably never blushed.
"You shouldn't place the least dependence on the words of a man's best friend under such conditions," he told her, "for he covers his chagrin at losing a comrade by a display of pessimism which he doesn't really feel."
Norvin suddenly wished the Countess would not allow her glance to linger upon him so long and searchingly. It filled him with a most disturbing self-consciousness. He was relieved when the Donna Teresa engaged him in conversation and the lovers were occupied with each other. It was some time later that the Countess addressed her aunt excitedly:
"Listen! What do you think of this, zia mia? The authorities will not admit poor Paolo to bail, and he is still in prison."
"Poor fellow!" cried the Donna Teresa. "It is La Mafia."
"Perhaps it is better for him to remain where he is," Martel said. "He is at least safe, for the time being. Here is something you may not know: Galli's wife is sister to Gian Narcone."
"The outlaw?"
"Then she will probably kill Paolo," said the Countess Margherita, calmly.
Blake exclaimed wonderingly: "I say—this is worse than Breathitt County, Kentucky. You talk of murders and outlaws as we discuss the cotton crop or the boll-weevil. This is the most fatal country I ever saw."
"It is a great pity that such things exist," the Donna Teresa agreed, "but one grows accustomed to them in time. It has been so ever since I was a child—we do not seem to progress, here in Sicily. Now in Italy it is much more civilized, much more restful."
"How hard it must be to do right," said the Countess, musingly. "Look at Paolo, for instance; he kills a wretched thief quite innocently, and yet the law holds him in prison. It is necessary, of course, to be severe with robbers like this Galli and his brother-in-law, who is an open outlaw, and yet, I suppose if I were that Galli's wife I should demand blood to wash my blood. She is only a wife."
"You sympathize with her?" exclaimed Martel in astonishment.
"Deeply! I am not so sorry the man was killed, but a wife has rights.
She will doubtless follow him."
"Do you believe in the vendetta?" Norvin asked, curiously.
"Who does not? The law is full of tricks. There is a saying which runs,
'The gallows for the poor, justice for the fool!'"
"You are a Mafiosa," cried the scandalized aunt.
"It is one of Aliandro's sayings. He has lived a life! He often tells me stories."
"Aliandro is a terrible liar," Martel declared. "I fear his adventures are much like his rheumatism."
"You do not exact a reckoning from your enemies in America?" queried
Margherita.
"Oh, we do, but not with quite so much enthusiasm as you do," Blake answered her. "We aren't ordinarily obliged to kill people in order to protect our property, and wives don't go about threatening vengeance when their husbands meet with accidents. The police take care of such things."
"A fine country! It must be so peaceful for old people," ejaculated the aunt.
"We have some outlaws, to be sure, like your notorious Belisario
Cardi—"
"Cardi is but a name," said the girl. "He does not exist."
Intercepting a warning glance from Martel, Blake said no more, and the talk drifted to more agreeable subjects.
But the Count, being possessed of a nervous temperament which called for constant motion, could not long remain inactive, and now, having poured his extravagant devotion into his sweetheart's ears, he rose, saying:
"I must go to the village. The baker, the confectioner, the butcher, all have many things to prepare for the festa, and I must order the fireworks from Messina. Norvin will remain here while Ricardo and I complete the arrangements. I tell you it will be a celebration to awaken the countryside. For an hour then, addio!" He touched his lips to Margherita's fingers and, bowing to her aunt, ran down the steps.
"Some gadfly stings him," said the Donna Teresa, fondly. "He is like a child; he cannot remain seated. He comes, he goes, like the wind. There is no holding him."
"So there's to be a festa?" Blake observed with interest.
"Oh, indeed! It will be a great event. It was Mattel's idea." Margherita arose and the young man followed. "See, out there upon the terrace there will be dancing. You have never seen a Sicilian merrymaking? You have never seen the tarantella! Then you will be interested. On the night before the ceremony the people will come from the whole countryside. There will be music, games, fireworks. Oh, it will be a celebrazione. My cousins from Messina will be here, the bishop, many fine people. I—I am more excited than Martel. I can scarcely wait." The girl's face mirrored her emotion and her eyes were as deep as the sea. She seemed for the moment very far away, uplifted in contemplation of the great change so soon to occur in her life, and Norvin began to suspect her of a tremendous depth of feeling. Unknown even to herself she was smouldering; unawakened fires were stirred by the consciousness of coming wifehood. Out here in the sun she was more tawny than ever, and, recalling the threat against her lover, the young man fell to wondering how she would take misfortune if it ever came. Feeling his eyes upon her, she met his gaze frankly with a smile.
"What is it? You have something to say."
He recovered himself with an effort.
"No! Only—you are so different from what I expected."
"And you also," she laughed. "You are much more agreeable; I like you immensely, and I want you to tell me all about yourself."
That was a wonderful afternoon for Blake. The Sicilian girl took him into her confidence without the slightest restraint. There was no period of getting acquainted; it was as if they had known each other for a lifetime. He never ceased marveling at her beauty and his ears grew ever more eager for her voice. Martel made no secret of his delight at their instantaneous liking for each other, and the dinner that evening was the gayest that had brightened Terranova for years.
Inasmuch as the ride to San Sebastiano was long, the young men were forced to leave early, but they were scarcely out of hearing before Martel drew his horse in beside Norvin and, laying a hand upon his friend's arm, inquired, breathlessly:
"Well? Come, come, brother of mine! You know I perish of eagerness.
What have you to say? The truth, between man and man."
Blake answered him with an odd hesitation:
"You must know without asking. There's nothing to say—except that she—she is like a golden flame. She sets one afire. She is different—wonderful. I—I—"
"Exactly!" Savigno laughed with keenest contentment. "There is no other."
When Blake retired that night it was not to sleep at once, for he was troubled by a growing fear of