“I will promise—­this is what I will promise,” said Vittoria.

Pericles thrust his ear forward, and withdrew it as if it had been slapped.

She promised to run from him at the first opportunity, to despise him ever after, and never to sing again in his hearing.  With the darkness Luigi appeared to light her lamp; he mouthed perpetually, “To-morrow, to-morrow.”  The watch-fires of Austrians encamped in the fields encircled her; and moving up and down, the cigar of Antonio-Pericles was visible.  He had not eaten or drunk, and he was out there sleepless; he walked conquering his fears in the thick of war troubles:  all for her sake.  She watched critically to see whether the cigar-light was puffed in fretfulness.  It burned steadily; and the thought of Pericles supporting patience quite overcame her.  In a fit of humour that was almost tears, she called to him and begged him to take a place in the carriage and have food.  “If it is your pleasure,” he said; and threw off his cloak.  The wine comforted him.  Thereupon he commenced a series of strange gesticulations, and ended by blinking at the window, saying, “No, no; it is impossible to explain.  I have no voice; I am not, gifted.  It is,” he tapped at his chest, “it is here.  It is, imprisoned in me.”

“What?” said Vittoria, to encourage him.

“It can never be explained, my child.  Am I not respectful to you?  Am I not worshipful to you?  But, no! it can never be explained.  Some do call me mad.  I know it; I am laughed at.  Oh! do I not know zat?  Perfectly well.  My ancestors adored Goddesses.  I discover ze voice of a Goddess:  I adore it.  So you call me mad; it is to me what you call me—­ juste ze same.  I am possessed wiz passion for her voice.  So it will be till I go to ashes.  It is to me ze one zsing divine in a pig, a porpoise world.  It is to me—­I talk!  It is unutterable—­impossible to tell.”

“But I understand it; I know you must feel it,” said Vittoria.

“But you hate me, Sandra.  You hate your Pericles.”

“No, I do not; you are my good friend, my good Pericles.”

“I am your good Pericles?  So you obey me?”

“In what?”

“You come to London?”

“I shall not.”

“You come to Turin?”

“I cannot promise.”

“To Milan?”

“No; not yet.”

Ungrateful little beast! minx! temptress!  You seduce me into your carriage to feed me, to fill me, for to coax me,” cried Pericles.

“Am I the person to have abuse poured on me?” Vittoria rejoined, and she frowned.  “Might I not have called you a wretched whimsical money-machine, without the comprehension of a human feeling?  You are doing me a great wrong—­to win my submission, as I see, and it half amuses me; but the pretence of an attempt to carry me off from my friends is an offence that I should take certain care to punish in another.  I do not give you any promise, because the first promise of all—­the promise to keep one—­ is not in my power.  Shut your eyes and sleep where you are, and in the morning think better of your conduct!”