Such, then, was the state of Porto Ferrajo toward the evening that succeeded this day of bustle and excitement.  The zephyr again prevailed—­the idle once more issued forth for their sunset walk—­and the gossips were collecting to renew their conjectures and to start some new point in their already exhausted discussions, when a rumor spread through the place, like fire communicated to a train, that “ze Ving-y-Ving” was once more coming down on the weather side of the island, precisely as she had approached on the previous evening, with the confidence of a friend and the celerity of a bird.  Years had passed since such a tumult was awakened in the capital of Elba.  Men, women, and children poured from the houses and were seen climbing the streets, all hastening to the promenade, as if to satisfy themselves with their own eyes of the existence of some miracle.  In vain did the infirm and aged call on the vigorous and more youthful for the customary assistance; they were avoided like the cases of plague, and were left to hobble up the terraced street as best they might.  Even mothers, after dragging them at their own sides till fearful of being too late, abandoned their young in the highway, certain of finding them rolled to the foot of the declivity, should they fail of scrambling to its summit.  In short, it was a scene of confusion in which there was much to laugh at, something to awaken wonder, and not a little that was natural.

Ten minutes had not certainly elapsed after the rumor reached the lower part of the town ere two thousand persons were on the hill, including nearly all the principal personages of the place, ’Maso Tonti, Ghita, and the different characters known to the reader.  So nearly did the scene of this evening resemble that of the past, the numbers of the throng on the hill and the greater interest excepted, that one who had been present at the former might readily have fancied the latter merely its continuation.  There, indeed, was the lugger, under her foresail and mainsail, with the jigger brailed, coming down wing-and-wing, and glancing along the glittering sea like the duck sailing toward her nest.  This time, however, the English ensign was flying at the end of the jigger yard, as if in triumph; and the little craft held her way nearer to the rocks, like one acquainted with the coast and fearing no danger.  There was a manner of established confidence in the way in which she trusted herself under the muzzles of guns that might have destroyed her in a very few minutes, and no one who saw her approach could very well believe that she was anything but a known, as well as a confirmed, friend.

“Would any of the republican rascals, think you, Signor Andrea,” asked Vito Viti, in triumph, “dare to come into Porto Ferrajo in this style; knowing, too, as does this ‘Sir Smees,’ the sort of people he will have to deal with!  Remember, Vice-governatore, that the man has actually been ashore among us, and would not be likely to run his head into the lion’s mouth.”