II

Father Atanasio could not explain satisfactorily to his own mind why

Don Cesare had been able to work himself into such a violent rage

against the poor Saint Pancras, and with every one whom he came across

on the way home, and with every one whom he encountered during the day

on the street, or in the wine-shop, he began the subject over again.

"I can understand very well," said the father, to his

devoutly-attentive listeners--"I understand perfectly--that you, Don

Ciccio, and you, Don Pasquale, and you, Don Geronimo, and many others,

are angry in your hearts with our patron saint. You need rain, you need

it as mankind needs air, and fishes water. That is to say, your fields

need it, your lemon trees, figs, pomegranates, olives, and almond

plantations. You are landed people, you cultivate your acres, and wet

them with the sweat of your brows. But the sweat of your brows,

ha-ha-ha! That is only a dewdrop or two, and won't answer instead of

rain." Here the father laughed, and all the others laughed at their

priest's joke.

"Well, then, if your patron forgets his duty, and neglects to send the

rain"--

"He doesn't want to send it!" cried one.

"Whether he doesn't want to, or whether he forgets it, that I don't

know--I am not at liberty to discuss the question since you credit me

with an evil-disposed jealousy toward the good old St. Pancras. Well,

then, never mind that; I know what I know. But what was I going

to say? Oh, yes, if you, being injured in your property through

your patron saint's--let us say, carelessness--if you show him in your

way--which--well--your way is--I don't know exactly what to call it."

"It's the way to deal with him," they shouted from every side. "We know

him. Praying is no good unless we discipline him too. This isn't the

first time. Fifty years ago our fathers had to do the same thing, and

he had not been three days under water before it rained. It's his old

heathenish obstinacy that must be broken now and then."

Father Atanasio turned right and left, behind, before, defending

himself from the pelting of angry words, with hands and feet, his head

wagging from side to side, hands and shoulders raised protestingly;

after a while, when they let him speak once more, he was quite

breathless, as if it were he who had been raging and shouting.

"Be peaceable, I beg," he gasped. "I know well that you understand this

matter better than I. It is nothing to me. I only have to read mass in

church before the blessed Madonna, and your Saint Pancras and his

chapel do not belong to my parish. But this is not what I wanted to

talk about. What I would say is: Don Cesare owns neither a tree nor a

blade of grass. It is all one to him if it rains or shines. He is a

ship-trader. What has he to do with rain? And yet it was Don Cesare who

took the saint from his pedestal and carried him down to the rocks. He

it was who slung the rope over the olive tree, and let Evolino down

into the water. And Don Cesare is a wise man, the wisest of us--of you

all. He knows what he does, and why he does it; and therefore I, Father

Atanasio, say something is wrong--something is hidden that must be

revealed."

In vain did the bystanders, charmed by Don Censure's heroic deed, seek

to make the father understand that the little ship-trader had simply

shared the feelings of his fellow tradesmen; that he had not acted from

personal motives, and it was exactly this unselfishness which deserved

to be admired and respected. All these explanations and assurances

rebounded from the father's sceptical smile without effect.

"My dear friends," said the stout, smiling father, "I know you and all

your kin. You were all hatched out of the same shell. Unselfishness? We

will seek that elsewhere. When it comes into your heads to praise a

fellow creature for his unselfishness it is because you somehow find it

to your own advantage. And Don Cesare, above all others, is far too

wise to be unselfish. He had his sufficient reasons for letting himself

be compromised with Saint Pancras, like the rest of you. Yes, Don

Ciccio, compromised you are, thoroughly, and if I were the Evolino,

Santo Diav--that is, I would say. Holy Madonna--I know what I would do.

However, that is not the question. I was talking of Don Cesare. He

knows on which side his bread is buttered, and how to squeeze in time

out of a tight place. He will set himself right with Saint Pancras,

take care of his own interests, and leave you all sitting in the mire,

never doubt it. Cesare Agresta, the clever trader, will look after his

own advantage."

The padre was not far wrong, for Don Cesare was a stirring, driving,

scheming little man; and as to the present question, it was certainly

true that, in the morning, when he took the saint down from his

pedestal and carried him, like a baby, out of the chapel, he had

whispered lightly, quite lightly, so that no one else could hear:

"Don't be angry, dear Pancrazio. What I do I must do. I will make it up

to you." Certainly no one heard this, not even Father Atanasio,

although he was standing close by, and looking on with silent,

malicious delight, while they made life so hard for the Holy Madonna's

hated rival; and still less was it observed by the bystanders, for the

face which Don Cesare made didn't match his words at all, and whoever

had seen him at that moment must have said to himself: "Poor St.

Pancras! it's lucky you are made of wood; for if alive you were, alive

you would never come out of the hands of this raving maniac, with the

glaring eyes and bristling hair."

Quite another face, the most unconcerned face in the world, was that

with which, toward evening of the same day, Don Cesare, in the

gathering twilight, walked into the room where his sister sat sewing by

the flickering, smoking tallow candle; and, with the most indifferent

tone in the world, he said to the girl looking up at him with the most

unconcerned as well as the handsomest and brightest of black eyes:

"Close up the house with care, Carmela. I am going to Salvatore's, and

shall not return till late."

At the door he turned and added: "And, Carmela, I may as well say, take

care of your eyes, little Mouse; they are remarkably bright these days.

And, you know, I would be well pleased with Nino, but he must take you

before the altar. If he will not do that--tell him from me--then let

him keep away from you, or it may be the worse for him. Good-night,

little Mouse!"

Whereupon Carmela, demurely bending her head over her work, replied:

"Go on, Cesare, and be easy. Carmela comes from good stock."

She was from the same stock as her brother, at any rate, for she added,

in exactly the same tone as that in which Don Cesare has whispered to

the saint:

"That Nino shall marry Carmela and none other will scarcely be

accomplished by your aid, Cesare. I must see to that."

Her eyes sparkled over her work, as if she knew very well indeed what

she was thinking about. And she did, too, the petite witch, with the

fine finger tips, and the raven black curly hair; for her brother was

no sooner out of the house than she sprang up lightly, ran to the door,

drew the bolt, and then stepped softly, softly, to a window that opened

on the street, stuck her little head through a narrow opening, and

looked quietly after Don Cesare for a while, then, when she had seen

him disappear through the darkness in the direction of Salvatore's

house, she threw the window wide open, leaned out, laid her right hand

above her eyes, and gazed steadily in the opposite direction, as if

searching for something in the thick gloom. She found what she was

looking for very soon. It appeared in the shape of a young, slender

man, who kept himself in the shadow of the houses, cautiously and

noiselessly approached the window, and suddenly stood before her,

grasping her hands in his, and whispering:

"I have waited long. I have kept my word. Will you keep yours,

Carmela?"

Cesare's small house lay at the outermost end of a little street that

led to the harbor. Whoever came up that way was certain not to be seen

by any one, and that was exactly the way the young man had come. The

night was dark. The moon was yet far below the horizon. It was easy to

chat quietly and unobserved between window and street, and this the two

did. They were far past the rudimentary stage of love-making, for

Carmela promptly resigned her hand to the caresses of Nino, who

confidently pressed upon it a long, passionate kiss.

"Only come this evening with me to my Casina," he whispered; "we can be

alone there, and we can't go on forever talking from window to street

like this."

Carmela smiled under cover of the night.

"It is so far," said she; "if my brother should come back before I"--

"You will be home long before your brother. The way is very short along

the shore, under the Promontory of Evolo."

"It is too far, Nino; the moon will rise soon, and then we shall be

discovered."

They talked together a long time. The moon rose, and poured its

peaceful light into the gloomy streets; but only for a little while,

then the sky darkened again, and black clouds rose slowly from the

west.

"See," laughed Nino, "the holy Pancrazio is getting tired of his bath.

And see, too, Carmela, he favors our love. He is hiding the clear

moonlight. Will you come now? Come then!"

She hesitated a moment Then she whispered. "Wait, I will fetch my

mantle," and disappeared.

While the pair were holding their rendezvous before Don Cesare's house,

that worthy was proceeding to his, after another fashion. At a

leisurely pace, as if addressed to an evening's gossip with a friend,

he had slowly departed down the street, never doubting that Carmela

would look after him; all girls did so, and his sister was like the

others, of course. Women were women, he opined, smiling quietly to

himself; one must treat them like children, pretend immense confidence,

but be mighty vigilant, and always preserve one's masculine

independence. This he certainly did, and carried out his theory with

much precision by making a sudden turn the moment a bend in the road

hid him from Carmela, and starting off at an amazing gait in the

opposite direction. First he took a side circuit through the crooked

little streets, and then hurried off toward the Promontory of Evolo.

There must have been something extraordinary in the busy little man's

brain, for he ran as fast as his short legs would let him. Tali Ciccio,

whom he met outside the ruined gate of the town, looking for Heaven

knows what in that lonely place, he never once noticed; on the

contrary, when he saw him from a distance, he seized the blue hood

which every one on the coast of Sicily wears winter and summer, in sun,

wind, and rain, fastened Bedouin fashion around his neck, and drew it

far over his face, raised his broad shoulders, and sunk his head

between them. He passed his astonished fellow citizen without looking

around, and the latter stood gazing after him, and muttered: "The devil

knows who that is, and where he is going;--I know every one in

Roccastretta, but I never saw _him_ before;" and shook his head after

him for a long while, like an honest member of society who has met with

something to reflect upon.

Don Cesare, meantime, hurried on, smiling slyly to himself. "By you, my

stupid Ciccio, I, Don Cesare, am not going to let myself be

overreached. What you are doing at this hour outside the town Heaven

knows. Some sort of love adventure, perhaps. Or have you been stealing

fruits and grain, and hiding them somewhere in a ruinous cassine? Or

are you engaged in smuggling? Saints have mercy on us! who could thrive

at smuggling these days, when not a ship runs into our harbor? For

three months, exactly as long as the rain has failed, not a sail has

this poor deserted harbor looked upon. Smuggling! Yes, that business

paid once on a time, but not now."

And the honest Don Cesare thought, with satisfaction, of that happy

time when, at least twice every month, a foreign sailing vessel came in

his way. What pleasant times! And now, for three long months, he had

stood day after day near the chapel of Evolo, which he now saw before

him on the heights above, and he had looked with his trusty spyglass in

all four quarters of the heavens to see if he could not discover a

white sail making for the harbor of Roccastretta, and showing the

well-known flag of Norway, or of England, or of Germany. From thence

came the vessels which supplied themselves in this vicinity with

southern fruits, olive oil, sulphur, and pumice stone, and brought

hither various things which Don Cesare secretly purchased for little

money and sold again for much--tobacco and cigars, woolen and cotton

goods, gay ribbons, gaudily-painted saints, and freshly-varnished

Madonnas, apostles, evangelists, and all sorts of wares, for which the

customhouse inspectors were especially greedy. These Don Cesare

understood how to convey into his house without discovery, and

undiscovered to sell afterward at a comfortable profit. Close by his

house, tied to an old broken pile, year in and year out, his boat lay

ready, and when a sail appeared in the distance, he was the first to

row out and offer his assistance to the captain; for he could jabber a

mixture of every known tongue with the greatest fluency, and the ship

had not come to anchor before Don Cesare was the confidential friend of

every one and the trusted adviser of the whole crew. Yes, insignificant

as he was in figure, Don Cesare was an enterprising fellow, and had his

head in the right place; and that thick, round skull, covered with

close-cut hair, with big, prominent, ring-bedecked ears, and wide mouth

stretched in an everlasting smile, was stuffed full of stratagems and

trader's tricks that brought him many a pretty sum, and at which the

honest foreign sailors did not complain; for, without Don Cesare's

help, they must have paid far dearer, and how did it cheat them that he

made a hundred per cent, on the fiery wine which he furnished them, and

that he obtained their fruits and meal and fresh meat from his

neighbors at a ridiculously low price? Oh, those good honest people!

They paid so willingly whatever he asked; they found everything so

cheap in this beautiful land; and when the ship was once more under

sail they all thanked him who went away, and those who remained, they

thanked him, too, for they all had done a good business; but he had

done better than any one! Yes, pleasant time! thought Don Cesare, as he

wandered along through the night and looked out on the black sailless

sea. Directly before him lay the Promontory of Evolo, with its old

olive trees. The chapel showed clearly through the darkness; last year

they had whitewashed it, to the honor of the saint who now lay in the

water. Don Cesare shook his head. "You poor, dear Evolino, what must

you think of me, that I could help them treat you so? And yet, you know

as well as I do, how much good it would have done for me to interfere.

If I had opposed them they would, maybe, have used you far worse; and

that, instead of water, you did not have to stand the scorching fire,

you may thank me. Sometimes one serves a friend better by howling with

the wolves than letting himself be torn to pieces by them in his

friend's company. Only wait. I will make it all right, good Evolino."

He had arrived at the foot of the Promontory. The little path wound off

among the rocks. A few steps further and it turned to the left, toward

the other side of the cliffs where Nino's country house lay silently

hid in thick groves of orange and lemon.

Don Cesare stood still. Suddenly a puff of wind passed over the water

which foamed up to his feet.

"Oh, oh!" said the little ship-trader, "from the west! The wind for

rain! No, dear San Pancrazio, you will not be so obliging to those

people who threw you into the water?"

Then he looked cautiously on every side, listened carefully to right

and left, and believing himself secure stepped down to the shore where

he knew the saint lay, felt around among the stones till he found the

rope, and then one might have seen the little man, slowly pulling the

line toward him, with the exertion of his whole strength. But the

holy Pancrazio didn't come so easily. One arm stuck on a sharp rock,

his halo got caught between two stones, and when there came a hard

pull it seemed as if something cracked in poor Saint Pancras' ancient

worm-eaten neck, and as if a very critical wabbling seized his old

heathen head.

"Ei, ei!" the poor saint must have thought, "how careless these human

beings are with their saints! First one is tied and thrown in the

water, and then knocked to pieces against the stones, for some one is

pulling the rope I see. What is _he_ going to do with me?"

And the shiny varnished eyes of Evolino tried to recognize the man, and

when he found that it was Don Cesare, he sighed in his wooden bosom,

but he patiently resigned himself to his fate. Only the wabbling of his

head made him anxious; for he liked his old head. Suppose he should

lose it, and they should put him on a new one?--a new head on the old

trunk! or if they should order a whole new saint from the best modern

wood-carver, what would become then of him, the only real, true,

ancient, genuine San Pancrazio of Evolo?

But Don Cesare pulled and pulled, and turned and twisted, and at last,

there lay the saint at his feet on the dry sand.

"Now, God be gracious to you, poor Evolino!" thought that ill-used

person. What then was his surprise, when Don Cesare, without speaking a

word, dragged him across the footpath, set him carefully up in a cleft

of the rock, brushed and cleaned him from slime and dirt, and dropping

on his knees, with folded hands, thus addressed him:

"There you are again on dry land, dear, good, holy Pancrazio, and are

rescued from the neighborhood of sea-crabs and polyps. And, do you see,

me, me alone, you have to thank for it, Don Cesare, who loves and

honors you! I told you so when I was bringing you down from the chapel.

The others have treated you shockingly, poor patron, but I, I rescued

you. Don't forget it, dear old San Pancrazio. Now I know well enough

what you would say: Don Cesare! Don Cesare! you were there too, and

slung the rope over the olive tree! Alas, yes! I had to be there! But

only think what would have happened if I had not been there, those

others were in such a rage with you!--on account of the rain! But what

do I care about the rain? You may leave them for weeks longer without

rain for all I care! they deserve it, and that tall, lean Ciccio, whom

I just met outside the walls, he it was who blustered most shockingly

about fire, and I it was who silenced him by slinging you into the

water. Yes, Evolino, and it is I again who drew you out. And now,

Evolino, be good to me, you who are also an ancient God of the Winds.

Weren't you called AEolus before you became the Saint of Evolo? Surely

you have not forgotten that,--and the winds will certainly listen to

you still. Blow, then, a good strong wind into the sails of a foreign

ship and guide it to our harbor, so that I may earn something once

more! See, I am not a rich man"--

He broke off suddenly. A clear, white beam of light had fallen upon the

saint and a strange smile seemed to play over his features. Don Cesare

looked around him in fright But it was only the moon that had just

risen from the ocean, and threw its first beams upon the image.

"It is clearing," said Don Cesare, as he rose, and brushed the sand

from his knees. "I must go now, for you understand, Evolino, only you

alone know that I have drawn you out of the sea. Now stand quietly, and

dry yourself, and get over your fright. But don't forget that you have

me to thank, me alone! and don't forget to send me the ship--soon! very

soon! Then I will dress your altar, and you shall have a new halo."

He stopped again in his discourse; for suddenly the image grew dark.

What was that? a cloud? rain? He looked around. In the west it had

grown black and heavy from the horizon up. "West wind?" said Don

Cesare. "Rain wind?--yes. But a favorable wind for ships that come from

the ocean into the Mediterranean. San Pancrazio, San Pancrazio--only

remember me!" He clambered slowly up the steep path, that led between

rubble, sharp-pointed cactus and aloes, to the chapel, but on the way

he often paused and looked around to see if any gleam of white sail

flashed across the blackness of the waves; for now he knew certainly

that Evolino had listened to him, and once the wind came to blowing,

the ships could not long fail. Thicker and thicker the huge clouds

massed themselves on the horizon. When he reached the top he sat down

under an olive tree to take breath. In the distance he thought he heard

a noise. Was it a ship in whose cordage the wind whistled its song, and

which was hastening to the protecting harbor? "Then Carmela may wait

till I come home," murmured Don Cesare. "I shall stay up here." And,

his eye immovably fixed on the water, Don Cesare remained sitting under

his olive tree.

Not from the sea, however, did the sound come which held the listening

trader spellbound on his lookout. With her narrow mantle drawn far over

her face, glancing on every side, secretly trembling from fear and joy,

Carmela ran beside Nino along the shore, jumped, with a beating heart,

from stone to stone, and at every noise that reached her ears from the

sea or the dark lemon trees, she clung closer and faster to her

companion.

"It is too far," she whispered, and already repented that she had

listened to his persistent entreaties, and left the safe walls of her

own home to follow him on this dangerous expedition.

"Calm yourself, child," answered Nino; "it is not a hundred steps

further, and your brother will not return before midnight--to-day

especially, they will have so much to tell about the fate of San

Pancrazio--and meanwhile we will tell other stories yonder in my cozy

Casina."

"Oh, Nino, it frightens me. Why did we not stay and chat at my window?

The street is so lonesome. Let us turn back. Really it is not right for

me."

"What are you saying, Carmela? The street lonesome? Oh, yes, and

suppose that old Francisca, your servant, looks out of the window on a

sudden, and sets all the dogs on the midnight marauder, as she did last

time? In my Casina there is nothing of that kind to dread. We shall be

alone there, and we have never been alone together yet since we

plighted our love to one another."

Carmela stood still.

"Nino," she said, "you risk nothing; but I risk everything. If any one

should find me here--or yonder."

"Who should find you?" broke in Nino. "No one wanders around out here

at this hour, and you are as safe as"--

She started suddenly, shrank back, and laid her hand, with an impetuous

gesture, on his mouth. They were standing directly in front of the

Promontory, where its outermost point juts forth and descends sheer to

the sea, and where the path crowds narrowly between this rocky wall and

the water.

"What is it?" asked Nino, softly.

"Yonder!" whispered Carmela, and her finger pointed through the night

to a rock close by the path, where, silent and motionless. _One_ stood.

"Santo Diavolo!" muttered Nino, darkly, to himself, and all his

Sicilian jealousy rushed like flame to his head. Hastily bending down,

he picked up a sharp heavy stone, and, without turning his eye from the

mysterious figure, he added, hastily: "The way is watched. Here is the

path that leads up to the chapel. Quick, Carmela, before he sees us."

By this time the rushing wind had driven the heavy clouds high up into

the zenith. Suddenly, through a rift, a beam of bright moonlight fell

upon the rocks. A wild scream broke from the girl, staring with wide

eyes at the motionless figure.

"The saint!" she cried, and held out her arms as if in self-defence

against the fearful sight. "The saint! ascended from the sea! Blessed

Madonna, protect me!" And, without knowing what she did, as if fleeing

from Divine judgment, she rushed up the path to the chapel in

breathless haste.

At first Nino was as if spellbound at the unexpected and, even for him,

mysteriously terrible vision.

"San Pancrazio!" came brokenly from his lips. But when he heard his

beloved's cry, and saw her fleeing through the darkness as if bereft of

reason, then the wild blind rage of the Sicilian whose love is

threatened seized him.

"Santo Diavolo, accursed saint, you shall pay for this!" he screamed,

fiercely, and at the same moment the stone flew, sent by a strong,

young hand, toward the Evolino. Nino watched it go, strike; then

something solid and heavy rolled, with a dull sound, over the rocks.

"May you smash your heathen skull to pieces on the cliffs, old idol!"

cried Nino to the tottering saint, and followed his beloved. "Carmela!"

he called, without regard to the danger of being heard and discovered.

"Carmela, stop! What are you doing?"

But Carmela rushed on like a frightened deer, over stones and roots of

trees, whither she knew not, what she sought she could not have told.

She fled, in order to flee--fled from the image of the threatening

saint, who had appeared in the white shimmering moonlight, as a

messenger of God, with the rod of avenging justice in his hand, or

perhaps as a guardian angel set in the way of temptation and

destruction.

She did not hear Nino's shouts, and she was deaf also to another voice

that suddenly called her name. As if all the lost souls from perdition

were at her heels, she flew up the cliff's side, and ran under the old

olive trees to the chapel.

"Carmela! Carmela!" shouted Nino, following close in breathless haste;

a gust of wind swung open the door of the deserted sanctuary; like a

child seeking its father's protection, Carmela sprang within; close

behind her followed Nino, and at the same moment, propelled by a

powerful hand, the door fell to with a loud bang; a hasty rattling

followed, and from the fast-made lock some one drew out the key.

Don Cesare it was who stood before the chapel, motionless, the key in

his hand, his eyes fastened on the door. Convulsively his hand sought

his knife, and he muttered a few half-stifled words. He stood there a

long time, seemingly in violent conflict with himself, and as if he

strove in vain for a decision. At last he seemed to find what he

sought.

"You won't escape me," he said to himself, and shoved the key into his

pocket; and after another pause he added: "Herein I recognize thy hand,

holy Pancrazio."

He clambered hurriedly down the path to the cliff once more, and a very

grim smile indeed passed over his face, for a saying which Father

Atanasio loved to bring into his sermons came suddenly, he could not

tell how, into his head--about ancient Saul, and how he went forth to

seek his she ass. Had he not also, like Saul, found something better

than he sought? The bold Nino was in his power. The blood shot up into

his head. He almost turned back to the chapel, but he was master of his

own will, and let the knife go again. The thieving villain! He had

taken advantage of his absence to chatter, Heaven knew what, misleading

nonsense in his favorite sister's ears, and had enticed her out of the

house onto that lonely path. She had fled before him, but yet she had

followed him. And now the two were sitting up there, caught, behind

lock and bolt, and he, Don Cesare, held the key in his hand, and,

except as true and honorable husband of Carmela, that rascal should

never come out of the chapel. And now Don Cesare laughed aloud, and

said:

"Whom have you to thank for this, Don Cesare? Whom but the good, dear

Evolino, whom you drew out of the water with your own hand--to whom you

will go now, this moment, and, throwing yourself on your knees, will"--

Hold! what was that? Evolino was no longer standing in the rocky niche,

and what did he see? Yonder he lay across the path; and, holy Madonna!

without a head! and in his breast a gaping wound, as if something had

crushed in poor Evolino's worm-eaten side. Don Cesare looked all

around. There lay the stone. Now he understood it all. Nino must have

thrown it at the saint when Carmela's scream startled him; yes, yes,

and now Evolino was revenging himself. He had hunted the two into his

chapel, and delivered the key into Don Cesare's hand! And see! there

lay the head. It had rolled close to the shore; but ah! in what a

condition it was, and what a change in Evolino's countenance! There was

the strangest mixture of godlike, cheerful youth, and shrivelled old

age, the shape, the forehead, the crown, the chin, were those of a

youth, but there were painted wrinkles on them, and scars had engraved

themselves deep in the old wood, and close beside these deep seams

which time had made in the once youthful face, the gaudy new varnished

colors showed like rouge on the face of a dead boy. Don Cesare felt

quite overcome by the sight. "Evolino! San Pancrazio!" said he, half

aloud to the head, which he held in his trembling hand. "Evolino, is it

you? or, is it not you? I don't know you any longer--and yet I know you

well, poor old friend!"

And with great fervor, as if he were carrying something very sacred, he

bore the head of San Pancrazio to where his body lay, raised the latter

from the ground, set it once more in the rocky niche, and carefully

laid the mutilated, unrecognizable head in the crossed arms, then he

kneeled on the sharp stones, folded his hands, and thanked his patron

in a prayer of much devoutness, for the favor which he had shown him

that day. He prayed a long time, and did not mark how the clouds

lowered ever nearer on land and sea--did not mark how the wind swept

cooler and cooler over the rocks. Not until the soft raindrops wet his

arms and shoulders did he arouse from his pious devotion.

"Evolino--dear Evolino!" said he silently to himself. "It is you who

put this into my head; you who led me hither, and in your hands I leave

the fortunes of my house. Rule it as seems best to you. To-morrow you

will find me at your chapel, ready for anything; for atonement, and

bridal rejoicing, or for a bloody avenging of my injured honor."

As he said this, he drew the key slowly out of his pocket, hung it on

one of the saint's hands, as if it were a hook, kissed Evolino's robe

once more in humble confidence, and departed with strong, rapid steps

through the night.