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The Marchesino, too, lay back, with his great, gray eyes staring about
him. While the feelings of his friend had moved towards satisfaction,
his had undergone a less pleasant change. His plan seemed to be going
awry, and he began to think of himself as of a fool. What had he
anticipated? What had he expected of this expedition? He had been, as
usual, politely waiting on destiny. He had come to the islet in the
hope that Destiny would meet him there and treat him with every
kindness and hospitality, forestalling his desires. But lo! He was
abandoned in a boat among a lot of taciturn men, while the object of
all his thoughts and pains, his plots and hopes, was, doubtless,
hermetically sealed in the home on the cliff above him.
Several Neapolitan words, familiar in street circles, ran through his
mind, but did not issue from his lips, and his face remained perfectly
calm--almost seraphic in expression.
Out of the corners of his eyes he stole a glance at "caro Emilio." He
wished his friend would follow the example of the men and go to sleep.


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