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 "Ah! once—one evening . . ."

"The miserable . . . Ha!"

He had jumped up as if stung by a gad-fly, and stood before her mute with anger.

"Misericordia Divina! You, too, Gian' Battista! Poor wretch that I am!" She lamented herself in ingenuous tones. "I told Linda, and she scolded—she scolded. Am I to live blind, dumb, and deaf in this world? And she told father, who took down his gun and cleaned it. Poor Ramirez! Then you came, and she told you."

He looked at her. He fastened his eyes upon the hollow of her white throat, which had the invincible charm of things young, palpitating, delicate, and alive. Was this the child he had known? Was it possible? It dawned upon him that in these last years he had really seen very little—nothing—of her. Nothing. She had come into the world like a thing unknown. She had come upon him unawares. She was a danger. A frightful danger. The instinctive mood of fierce determination that had never failed him before the perils of this life added its steady force to the violence of his passion. She, in a voice that recalled to him the song of running water, the tinkling of a silver bell, continued:

"And between you three you have brought me here into this captivity to the sky and water. Nothing else. Sky and water. Oh, Sauctissima Madre! My hair shall turn gray in this tedious island. I hate you, Gian' Battista!"

He laughed loudly. Her voice enveloped him like a caress. She lamented herself, spreading uncon-