and dancing desire. They connected it with strange superstitions, with
gifts, with deprivations, with death. Familiar and mysterious it was
purely to them as to all seamen, like a woman possessed whose soul is
far away.

Just as the clocks of Posilipo were striking eight the Marchesino
steered the boat into the quay of the Antico Guiseppone.

Although it was early in the season a few deal tables were set out by
the waterside, and a swarthy waiter, with huge mustaches and a napkin
over his arm, came delicately over the stones to ask their wishes.

"Will you let me order dinner, Emilio?" said the Marchesino: "I know
what they do best here."

Artois agreed, and while the waiter shuffled to carry out the
Marchesino's directions the two friends strolled near the edge of the
sea.

The breeze had been kindly. Having served them well it was now dying
down to its repose, leaving the evening that was near to night
profoundly calm. As Artois walked along the quay he felt the approach
of calm like the approach of a potentate, serene in the vast
consciousness of power. Peace was invading the sea, irresistible
peace. The night was at hand. Already Naples uncoiled its chain of
lamps along the Bay. In the gardens of Posilipo the lights of the
houses gleamed. Opposite, but very far off across the sea, shone the
tiny flames of the houses of Portici, of Torre del Greco, of Torre
Annunziata, of Castellamare. Against the gathering darkness Vesuvius
belched slowly soft clouds of rose-colored vapor, which went up like a