motion. Those dark, shifting patches, alternately

catching and eluding the eye, altered their place al- ways away from the harbor with a suggestion of con- secutive order and purpose. A light dawned upon him. It was a column of infantry on a night march towards the higher broken country at the foot of the hills. But he was too much in the dark about every- thing for wonder and speculation. The plain had resumed its shadowy immobility. He descended the ridge, and found himself in the open solitude between the harbor and the town. Its spa- ciousness, extended indefinitely by an effect of ob- scurity, rendered more sensible his profound isolation. His pace became slower. No one waited for him; no one thought of him; no one expected or wished his return. " Betrayed! Betrayed!" he muttered to him- self. No one cared. He might have been drowned by this time. No one would have cared unless, per- haps, the children, he thought to himself. But they were with the English signora, and not thinking of him at all. He wavered in his purpose of making straight for the Casa Viola. To what end? What could he ex- pect there? His life seemed to fail him in all its de- tails, even to the scornful reproaches of Teresa. He was aware painfully of his reluctance. Was it that remorse which she had prophesied with what he saw now was her last breath? Meantime he had deviated from the straight course, inclining by a sort of instinct to the left, towards the jetty and the harbor, the scene of his daily labors.

The great length of the custom - house loomed up all