swallowed but a drop or two of wine, to avoid resisting the repeated
urgency of his guest. Gabriel had set out in the morning for Sorrento
and was not to return for two or three days; his absence tended to
increase the old man's melancholy. As soon as Trespolo had retired, the
fisherman yielded to his fatigue. Nisida, with her arms hanging by her
sides, her head heavy and her heart oppressed by a sad presentiment, had
scarcely strength to go up to her room, and after having mechanically
trimmed the lamp, sank on her bed as pale and stiff as a corpse.

The storm was breaking out with violence; one of those terrible storms
seen only in the South, when the congregated clouds, parting suddenly,
shed torrents of rain and of hail, and threaten another deluge. The roar
of the thunder drew nearer and was like the noise of a cannonade. The
gulf, lately so calm and smooth that the island was reflected as in a
mirror, had suddenly darkened; the furiously leaping waves flung
themselves together like wild horses; the island quaked, shaken by
terrible shocks. Even the boldest fishermen had drawn their boats
ashore, and, shut within their cabins, encouraged as best they could
their frightened wives and children.

Amid the deep darkness that overspread the sea Nisida's lamp could be
seen gleaming clear and limpid, as it burned before the Madonna. Two
boats, without rudders, sails, or oars, tossed by the waves, beaten by
the winds, were whirling above the abyss; two men were in these two
boats, their muscles tense, their breasts bare, their hair flying. They
gazed haughtily on the sea, and braved the tempest.

"Once more, I beg you," cried one of these men, "fear not for me,
Gabriel; I promise you that with my two broken oars and a little
perseverance I shall get to Torre before daybreak."