Among the third-class passengers forward, was an Italian lad of a dozen years, small for his age, but robust; a bold, handsome, austere face, of Sicilian type. He was alone near the fore-mast, seated on a coil of cordage, beside a well-worn valise, which contained his effects, and upon which he kept a hand. His face was brown, and his black and wavy hair descended to his shoulders. He was meanly clad, and had a tattered mantle thrown over his shoulders, and an old leather pouch on a cross-belt. He gazed thoughtfully about him at the passengers, the ship, the sailors who were running past, and at the restless sea. He had the appearance of a boy who has recently issued from a great family sorrow,—the face of a child, the expression of a man.
A little after their departure, one of the steamer’s crew, an Italian with gray hair, made his appearance on the bow, holding by the hand a little girl; and coming to a halt in front of the little Sicilian, he said to him:—
“Here’s a travelling companion for you, Mario.” Then he went away.
The girl seated herself on the pile of cordage beside the boy.
They surveyed each other.
“Where are you going?” asked the Sicilian.
The girl replied: “To Malta on the way of Naples.” Then she added: “I am going to see my father and mother, who are expecting me. My name is Giulietta Faggiani.”
The boy said nothing.
After the lapse of a few minutes, he drew some bread from his pouch, and some dried fruit; the girl had some biscuits: they began to eat.
“Look sharp there!” shouted the Italian sailor, as he passed rapidly; “a lively time is at hand!”