"There's a little wind, Emilio," he said, as they got into the boat in
the harbor of Santa Lucia; "we can sail to the Antico Giuseppone. And
after dinner we'll fish for sarde. Isn't it warm? One could sleep out
on such a night."

They had two men with them. When they got beyond the breakwater the
sail was set, the Marchesino took the helm, and the boat slipped
through the smooth sea, rounded the rocks on which the old fort stands
to stare at Capri, radiant now as a magic isle in the curiously
ethereal light of evening, and headed for the distant point of land
which hid Ischia from their eyes. The freedom of the Bay of Naples was
granted them--the freedom of the sea. As they ran out into the open
water, and Artois saw the round gray eyes of the Marchesino dancing to
the merry music of a complete bodily pleasure, he felt like a man
escaping. He looked back at the city almost as at a sad life over, and
despite his deep and persistent interest in men he understood the joy
of the hermit who casts them from him and escapes into the wilds. The
radiance of the Bay, one of the most radiant of all the inlets of the
sea, bold and glaring in the brilliant daytime, becomes exquisitely
delicate towards night. Vesuvius, its fiery watcher, looks like a
kindly guardian, until perhaps the darkness shows the flame upon its
flanks, the flame bursting forth from the mouth it opens to the sky;
and the coast-line by Sorrento, the lifted crest of Capri, even the
hill of Posilipo, appear romantic and enticing, calling lands holding
wonderful pleasures for men, joys in their rocks and trees, joys in
their dim recesses, joys and soft realities fulfilling every dream
upon their coasts washed by the whispering waves.

The eyes of the Marchesino were dancing with physical pleasure. Artois
wondered how much he felt the beauty of the evening, and how. His