“Ah! you have the good heart, eccellenza,” murmured the Sicilian, thoughtfully.  “Would there were more like you!  Often when fortune gives a kick to a man, nothing will suit but that all who see him must kick him also.  And thus the povero diavolo dies of so many kicks, often!  This friend of yours is young, senza dubbio?”

“Yes, quite young, not yet thirty.”

“It is as if you were a father to him!” exclaimed Andrea, enthusiastically.  “I hope he may be truly grateful to you, eccellenza.”

“I hope so too,” I said, unable to resist a smile.  “And now, amico, take this,” and I pressed a small sealed packet into his hand.  “It is for yourself.  Do not open it till you are at home with the mother you love so well, and the little maiden you spoke of by your side.  If its contents please you, as I believe they will, think that I am also rendered happier by your happiness.”

His dark eyes sparkled with gratitude as I spoke, and setting the valise he held down on the ground, he stretched out his hand half timidly, half frankly.  I shook it warmly and bade him farewell.

“Per Bacco!” he said, with a sort of shamefaced eagerness, “the very devil must have caught my tongue in his fingers!  There is something I ought to say to you, eccellenza, but for my life I cannot find the right words.  I must thank you better when I see you next.”

“Yes,” I answered, dreamily and somewhat wearily, “when you see me next, Andrea, you shall thank me if you will; but believe me, I need no thanks.”

And thus we parted, never to meet again—­he to the strong glad life that is born of the wind and sea, and I to—.  But let me not anticipate.  Step by step through the labyrinths of memory let me go over the old ground watered with blood and tears, not missing one sharp stone of detail on the drear pathway leading to the bitter end.

That same evening I had an interview with Vincenzo.  He was melancholy and taciturn—­a mood which was the result of an announcement I had previously made to him—­namely, that his services would not be required during my wedding-trip.  He had hoped to accompany me and to occupy the position of courier, valet, major-domo, and generally confidential attendant—­a hope which had partially soothed the vexation he had evidently felt at the notion of my marrying at all.

His plans were now frustrated, and if ever the good-natured fellow could be ill-tempered, he was assuredly so on this occasion.  He stood before me with his usual respectful air, but he avoided my glance, and kept his eyes studiously fixed on the pattern of the carpet.  I addressed him with an air of gayety.

“Ebbene, Vincenzo!  Joy comes at last, you see, even to me!  To-morrow I shall wed the Countess Romani—­the loveliest and perhaps the richest woman in Naples!”

“I know it, eccellenza.”

This with the same obstinately fixed countenance and downward look.