Pietro and his assistant look down upon me.

"E morto!" they whisper one to the other.

I hear them and smile. Dead? Not I! The scorching sunlight streams
through the open door of the inn--the thirsty flies buzz with
persistent loudness--some voices are singing "La Fata di Amalfi"--I
can distinguish the words--

"Chiagnaro la mia sventura
Si non tuorne chiu, Rosella!
Tu d' Amalfi la chiu bella,
Tu na Fata si pe me!
Viene, vie, regina mie,
Viene curre a chisto core,
Ca non c'e non c'e sciore,
Non c'e Stella comm'a te!"
[Footnote: A popular song in the Neapolitan dialect.]

That is a true song, Nina mia! "Non c'e Stella comm' a te!" What did
Guido say? "Purer than the flawless diamond--unapproachable as the
furthest star!" That foolish Pietro still polishes his wine-bottles.
I see him--his meek round face is greasy with heat and dust; but I
cannot understand how he comes to be here at all, for I am on the
banks of a tropical river where huge palms grow wild, and drowsy
alligators lie asleep in the sun. Their large jaws are open--their
small eyes glitter greenly. A light boat glides over the silent
water--in it I behold the erect lithe figure of an Indian. His
features are strangely similar to those of Guido. He draws a long
thin shining blade of steel as he approaches. Brave fellow!--he