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A voice--an inquiring, searching voice, surely, rose quivering from
some distance on the sea, startling Vere and Artois. It was untrained
but unshy, and the singer forced it with resolute hardihood that was
indifferent to the future. Artois had never heard the Marchesino sing
before, but he knew at once that it was he. Some one at the island
must surely have told the determined youth that Vere was voyaging, and
he was now in quest of her, sending her an amorous summons couched in
the dialect of Naples.
Vere moved impatiently.
"Really!" she began.
But she did not continue. The quivering voice began another verse.
Artois had said nothing, but, as he sat listening to this fervid
protestation, a message illuminated as it were by the vibrato, he
began to hate the terrible frankness of the Italian nature which, till
now, he had thought he loved. The beauty of reticence appealed to him
in a new way. There was savagery in a bellowed passion. The voice was
travelling. They heard it moving onward towards Nisida.


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