“But, my lord—–­” stammered Trespolo, astounded.

“No difficulties!” cried the prince, stamping his foot furiously, “or, by my father’s death, I will cure you, once for all, of your scruples.”  And he turned on his heel with the air of a man who is certain that people will be very careful not to disobey his orders.

The unhappy Trespolo fulfilled his master’s injunctions punctually.  With him fear was the guiding principle.  That evening the fisherman’s supper table was hopelessly dull, and the sham pilgrim tried in vain to enliven it by factitious cheerfulness.  Nisida was preoccupied by her lover’s departure, and Solomon, sharing unconsciously in his daughter’s grief, swallowed but a drop or two of wine, to avoid resisting the repeated urgency of his guest.  Gabriel had set out in the morning for Sorrento and was not to return for two or three days; his absence tended to increase the old man’s melancholy.  As soon as Trespolo had retired, the fisherman yielded to his fatigue.  Nisida, with her arms hanging by her sides, her head heavy and her heart oppressed by a sad presentiment, had scarcely strength to go up to her room, and after having mechanically trimmed the lamp, sank on her bed as pale and stiff as a corpse.

The storm was breaking out with violence; one of those terrible storms seen only in the South, when the congregated clouds, parting suddenly, shed torrents of rain and of hail, and threaten another deluge.  The roar of the thunder drew nearer and was like the noise of a cannonade.  The gulf, lately so calm and smooth that the island was reflected as in a mirror, had suddenly darkened; the furiously leaping waves flung themselves together like wild horses; the island quaked, shaken by terrible shocks.  Even the boldest fishermen had drawn their boats ashore, and, shut within their cabins, encouraged as best they could their frightened wives and children.

Amid the deep darkness that overspread the sea Nisida’s lamp could be seen gleaming clear and limpid, as it burned before the Madonna.  Two boats, without rudders, sails, or oars, tossed by the waves, beaten by the winds, were whirling above the abyss; two men were in these two boats, their muscles tense, their breasts bare, their hair flying.  They gazed haughtily on the sea, and braved the tempest.

“Once more, I beg you,” cried one of these men, “fear not for me, Gabriel; I promise you that with my two broken oars and a little perseverance I shall get to Torre before daybreak.”

“You are mad, Bastiano; we have not been able ever since the morning to get near Vico, and have been obliged to keep tacking about; your skill and strength have been able to do nothing against this frightful hurricane which has driven us back to this point.”

“It is the first time you have ever refused to go with me,” remarked the young man.

“Well, yes, my dear Bastiano, I do not know how it is, but to-night I feel drawn to the island by an irresistible power.  The winds have been unchained to bring me back to it in spite of myself, and I will own to you, even though it should make me seem like a madman in your eyes, that this simple and ordinary event appears to me like an order from heaven.  Do you see that lamp shining over there?”