Presently the hostess of the place, having arranged her head-dress to her own satisfaction, came out behind the counter. She leaned over and looked for her drunken admirer. After all, he had money in his pocket, and he was not such a bad fellow. She would take him into her little room behind, and let him sleep for a while more comfortably. But--but where was he? He was not there. She turned the light higher and looked around. There was no one in the room at all. Two hopelessly drunken men and the stranger had left the place without making the slightest sound, or without calling for more drink. It was incredible. But it was true. The wine-shop keeper had never been so surprised in her life. Not only was she surprised, but she was frightened. The thing was beyond belief. The sweat broke out upon her forehead, and she crossed herself. The devil himself must have come and fetched them away, and, if so, why should he not fetch her. She was wicked enough. What a horrible thought.
Half a dozen men, the crew of a fishing boat, suddenly entered the court, filling the air with their voices, and descended the steps. She came to herself while serving them, and commenced to forget her fright. But she did not mention that little occurrence, and the very thought of a drunken man for days afterwards made her shudder.
It was almost midnight, and Palermo lay sleeping in the moonlight. The concert was over, and the people who had shouted themselves hoarse with enthusiasm had dispersed at last to their homes. The last of the broad-wheeled, heavily-built carriages had rolled away through the white streets of the town. One by one the promenaders had left the Marina, and all sound had died away. There was a faint, sighing breeze in the orange groves around the bay, but scarcely a ripple upon the water. One man alone lingered drinking in the sweetness of the night. The Englishman sat on the last seat of the Marina, in the shadow of a cluster of orange trees.
He had seen her again--nay, more, he had heard her sing--this girl-nightingale, who had taken the world by storm. Chance had favored him, insomuch that he had been able to secure almost a front seat in the concert room, and the wonderful music of her voice rang still in his ears. He had stolen out here to try and think it all over, and to calm the passion which had suddenly leaped up within him. It was quite a new experience through which he was passing; he scarcely knew himself. He was happy and miserable, sanguine and despondent, all in a moment. One question was always before him--one end, one aim. How was he to know her? How could he endure to live here, seeing her day by day for a brief while, without making her acquaintance? There was nothing to be hoped for from the Sicilian, who would not even tell him her name. Possibly, though, she would visit, or be visited by, some of the nobility of the place. This was almost his only hope. He had letters to most of them, and he made up his mind to present them all on the morrow.