“I am cruel, W-Will, is it not?” she said, laying a hand on him and whispering in broken English. Then relapsing into Italian she added: “These things are not the same to us as they are to you English—it is fighting we dread, not death. A Neapolitan does not expect to fight, he expects to kill. The other man will be taken at a disadvantage, and sometimes defend himself desperately; but he will have a disabling blow, and when the Neapolitan’s own turn comes, he would rather be killed with one blow than have the agony of defending himself, though he is very desperate.”
“How thankful I am that you are a Sicilian, Rusidda!”
“The Sicilians are worse; they are more bitter, more revengeful. There is always the vendetta in Sicily. If you had been a Sicilian, and treated me as you did, even my brother would have sent a man to kill you. He would not have fought you: a Sicilian when he is injured does not wish to risk himself or give his enemy a chance—he wishes to be revenged.”
“And what should you have done?”
“Perhaps have killed myself; for I loved you—then!”
“Then why cannot you love me now?”
“I cannot say; but it is not possible. But I do love you much, W-Will, in another way. Come here, W-Will,” she resumed suddenly; “it is dark, and we are engaged, you know.”
“Oh, Rus——”
“In the eyes of the Sicilian custom, I mean; and you are trying, and I am trying for the other also.”
“But if you are trying, Rusidda——”