On the wall, high above the sea, were dotted the
dilettante fishermen with their long rods and lines. And below, before
each stone staircase that descended to the water, was a waiting boat,
and in the moonlight rose up the loud cry of "Barca! Barca!" to
attract the attention of any casual passer-by.
And here, on this more truly sea-like sea, distant from the great
crowd and from the thronging houses, the real fishermen who live by
the sea were alert and at work, or were plunged in the quiet sleep
that is a preparation for long hours of nocturnal wakefulness.
Hermione thought of it all, was aware of it, felt it, as she sat there
opposite to the open window. Then she looked over to her writing-
table, on which stood a large photograph of her dead husband, then to
the sofa where Vere had been. She saw the volume of Rossetti lying
beside the cushion that still showed a shallow dent where the child's
head had been resting.
And then she shut her eyes, and asked her imagination to take her away
for a moment, over the sea to Messina, and along the curving shore,
and up by winding paths to a mountain, and into a little room in a
tiny, whitewashed house, not the house of the sea, but of the priest.
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