‘I ‘ll go and fetch my guitar, then,’ said she, and bounding away, was soon once more beside him, sweeping her fingers over the cords as she came.
‘It’s nothing of a song, either words or music; but I picked it up at Capri, and it reminds me of that sweet spot.’ So saying, and after a little prelude, she sang the canzonette, of which the following words are a rude version:
‘I know a bark on a moonlit sea,
Pescator! Pescator!
There’s one in that bark a-thinking of me,
Oh, Pescator!
And while his light boat steals along,
Pescator! Pescator!
He murmurs my name in his evening song,
Oh, Pescator!
He prays the Madonna above my head,
Pescator! Pescator!
To bring sweet dreams around my bed,
Oh, Pescator!
And when the morning breaks on shore,
I’ll kneel and pray for my Pescator,
Who ventures alone on the stormy sea,
All for me! all for me!’!!!!
Simple as were the words, the wild beauty of the little air thrilled through Gerald’s heart, and twice did he make her repeat it.
‘Oh, if you like barcarolles,’ said she, ‘I’ll sing you hundreds of them, and teach you, besides, to sing them with me. We shall be so happy, Gherardi mio, living thus together.
‘And not regret Chico?’ said Gerald gravely.
‘Chico was very clever, but he was cruel. He would beat me when I would not learn quickly; and my life was very sad when he was with us. See,’ said she, drawing down her sleeve from her shoulder, ‘these stripes were of his giving.’
‘Briccone!’ muttered Gerald, ‘if I had him here.’
‘Ah, he was so treacherous! He ‘d have stabbed you at the altar-foot rather than let a vengeance escape him. He was a Corsican.’
‘And are they so treacherous always?’