glances.  She had become a daughter of Eve again without losing anything of her charm.  Simply dressed, as she usually was on work-days, she was distinguishable among her companions only by her amazing beauty and by the dazzling whiteness of her skin.  Her beautiful black hair was twisted in plaits around the little dagger of chased silver, that has lately been imported into Paris by that right of conquest which the pretty women of Paris have over the fashions of all countries, like the English over the sea.

Nisida was adored by her young friends, all the mothers had adopted her with pride; she was the glory of the island.  The opinion of her superiority was shared by everyone to such a degree, that if some bold young man, forgetting the distance which divided him from the maiden, dared speak a little too loudly of his pretensions, he became the laughing-stock of his companions.  Even the past masters of tarentella dancing were out of countenance before the daughter of Solomon, and did not dare to seek her as a partner.  Only a few singers from Amalfi or Sorrento, attracted by the rare beauty of this angelic creature, ventured to sigh out their passion, carefully veiled beneath the most delicate allusions.  But they seldom reached the last verse of their song; at every sound they stopped short, threw down their triangles and their mandolines, and took flight like scared nightingales.

One only had courage enough or passion enough to brave the mockery; this was Bastiano, the most formidable diver of that coast.  He also sang, but with a deep and hollow voice; his chant was mournful and his melodies full of sadness.  He never accompanied himself upon any instrument, and never retired without concluding his song.  That day he was gloomier than usual; he was standing upright, as though by enchantment, upon a bare and slippery rock, and he cast scornful glances upon the women who were looking at him and laughing.  The sun, which was plunging into the sea like a globe of fire, shed its light full upon his stern features, and the evening breeze, as it lightly rippled the billows, set the fluttering reeds waving at his feet.  Absorbed by dark thoughts, he sang, in the musical language of his country, these sad words:—­

“O window, that wert used to shine in the night like an open eye, how dark thou art!  Alas, alas! my poor sister is ill.

“Her mother, all in tears, stoops towards me and says, ’Thy poor sister is dead and buried.’

“Jesus!  Jesus!  Have pity on me!  You stab me to the heart.

“Tell me, good neighbours, how it happened; repeat to me her last words.

“She had a burning thirst, and refused to drink because thou wast not there to give her water from thy hand.

“Oh, my sister!  Oh, my sister!

“She refused her mother’s kiss, because thou wast not there to embrace her.

“Oh, my sister!  Oh, my sister!

“She wept until her last breath, because thou wast not there to dry her tears.