There she sat, her large blue eyes staring out of the window, with a feeling of overflowing joy, that filled her heart, a feeling she could not explain to herself, especially at his approach, the violent beating of something within her that threatened at times to take her breath away.
"Mia cara Concetta, I love you madly," had he not long since whispered in her ear. He has said that to her, the common-place daughter of the "Paesano" Niccolo Gallioti. But his dark, passionate-looking eyes made her tremble. She did not know why.
"If he could see me now in my new Sunday dress!" she thought, her glance sweeping over the crowd, as she passed along, surrounded by all the youths and maidens of the village, in her red petticoat and bodice of black silk, with snow white muslin sleeves. "There! Santissima Madonna." "He is waiting for me," she whispered happily, while a blush brighter than the red silk of her dress overspread her lovely face.
But not for all the bunches of red grapes she was so fond of would she have raised her eyes, for fear the youths and maidens might have read in them the delight of her heart at seeing the man she loved and was loved by such a man!—the violent beating within her increased at this thought. "Madonna!" She looked at the soft blue sky and the waving cactus plants in the distance. Tears of joy filled her eyes, while the golden sunshine filled every nook and corner in Nature's great realm.
Arriving at the house, she found the maid busily engaged in preparing the feast. The men were beginning to place large tables in the garden under the orange trees. Then they rolled out large casks of the new wine from the cellar. Concetta had just put on her apron, busily engaged in carrying out a tray full of dishes into the gaily decorated garden, when the door burst open. Her father stood at the entrance, with his cap in his hand, bowing reverentially to a gentleman, begging him to honor his house by entering and participating in the general frolic of the day.
A loud crash was heard. Concetta recognized him at once, the gentleman with the ensnaring eyes, and, delighted as she was, had dropped the large Sunday tray, with all the special dishes which only appeared on the Sunday table for special occasions. She was startled and happy at the same time, and hardly heard the irate father's words of blame. The voice of the little lazzaroni was heard outside singing "Napoli Bella." She looked through the window, and San Francesco, on his pedestal, smiled at her. She turned about, and met his burning glances. Her cheeks crimsoned; she was in a confusion when those dark fascinating eyes actually followed her wherever she went.
He sat by her side at the table, calling her, Concetta Gallioti, endearing names, and squeezing her hand tenderly whenever the father was not looking in their direction. And when she found his eyes constantly fastened upon her face, she felt like crying and laughing at the same time, though it looked as if she were even too shy for that.
Her innocent face was like the clear water of the Spring at Castellamare. He observed her closely, knew the symptoms and smiled maliciously, considering it an auspicious omen in his well-tried loving-making scheme.
The evening breezes rose and sank solemnly through the little green olive trees in the distance. The tables were cleared away, the meal was over and the three grotesque musicians, who had been feasting convivially, were sounding their instruments with special vigor. The dance began. All eyes were turned on Concetta, as she opened the rustic ball with the interesting stranger beneath the orange trees.
Her little heart felt as though it would burst with joy in the consciousness that he had eyes and ears for none but her, and scarcely seemed to see the most renowned beauties of the village. The whole evening he danced only with her—and what things he whispered in her ear! Her fair cheeks still clothed themselves in red—and the more they did so, the more eloquent grew his lips and the more terrifying in its passion his burning gaze.