an extremely experienced soul; and the slightest distension of his
nostrils would give to his bronzed face a look of extraordinary
boldness. This was the only play of feature of which he seemed
capable, being a Southerner of a concentrated, deliberate type.
His ebony hair curled slightly on the temples. He may have been
forty years old, and he was a great voyager on the inland sea.

Astute and ruthless, he could have rivalled in resource the
unfortunate son of Laertes and Anticlea. If he did not pit his
craft and audacity against the very gods, it is only because the
Olympian gods are dead. Certainly no woman could frighten him. A
one-eyed giant would not have had the ghost of a chance against
Dominic Cervoni, of Corsica, not Ithaca; and no king, son of kings,
but of very respectable family--authentic Caporali, he affirmed.
But that is as it may be. The Caporali families date back to the
twelfth century.

For want of more exalted adversaries Dominic turned his audacity
fertile in impious stratagems against the powers of the earth, as
represented by the institution of Custom-houses and every mortal
belonging thereto--scribes, officers, and guardacostas afloat and
ashore. He was the very man for us, this modern and unlawful
wanderer with his own legend of loves, dangers, and bloodshed. He
told us bits of it sometimes in measured, ironic tones. He spoke
Catalonian, the Italian of Corsica and the French of Provence with
the same easy naturalness. Dressed in shore-togs, a white starched
shirt, black jacket, and round hat, as I took him once to see Dona
Rita, he was extremely presentable. He could make himself
interesting by a tactful and rugged reserve set off by a grim,
almost imperceptible, playfulness of tone and manner.