“Irma!” said Vittoria, astonished at the ring of a well-known voice that shot up in firework fashion, as Pericles had said of it.  Incredulous, she listened till she was sure; and then glanced hurried questions at all eyes.  Violetta laughed, saying, “You have the score of Rocco Ricci’s Hagar.”

The boat drew under the blazing windows, and half guessing, half hearing, Vittoria understood that Pericles was giving an entertainment here, and had abjured her.  She was not insensible to the slight.  This feeling, joined to her long unsatisfied craving to sing, led her to be intolerant of Irma’s style, and visibly vexed her.

Violetta whispered:  “He declares that your voice is cracked:  show him!  Burst out with the ‘Addio’ of Hagar.  May she not, Carlo?  Don’t you permit the poor soul to sing?  She cannot contain herself.”

Carlo, Adela, Agostino, and Violetta prompted her, and, catching a pause in the villa, she sang the opening notes of Hagar’s ‘Addio’ with her old glorious fulness of tone and perfect utterance.

The first who called her name was Rocco Ricci, but Pericles was the first to rush out and hang over the boat.  “Witch! traitress! infernal ghost! heart of ice!” and in English “humbug!” and in French “coquin!":—­these were a few of the titles he poured on her.  Rocco Ricci and Montini kissed hands to her, begging her to come to them.  She was very willing outwardly, and in her heart most eager; but Carlo bade the rowers push off.  Then it was pitiful to hear the shout of abject supplication from Pericles.  He implored Count Ammiani’s pardon, Vittoria’s pardon, for telling her what she was; and as the boat drew farther away, he offered her sums of money to enter the villa and sing the score of Hagar.  He offered to bear the blame of her bad behaviour to him, said he would forget it and stamp it out; that he would pay for the provisioning of a regiment of volunteers for a whole month; that he would present her marriage trousseau to her—­yes, and let her marry.  “Sandra! my dear! my dear!” he cried, and stretched over the parapet speechless, like a puppet slain.

So strongly did she comprehend the sincerity of his passion for her voice that she could or would see nothing extravagant in this demonstration, which excited unrestrained laughter in every key from her companions in the boat.  When the boat was about a hundred yards from the shore, and in full moonlight, she sang the great “Addio” of Hagar.  At the close of it, she had to feel for her lover’s hand blindly.  No one spoke, either at the Villa Ricciardi, or about her.  Her voice possessed the mountain-shadowed lake.

The rowers pulled lustily home through chill air.