"Oh!" he groaned, cowering down, gasping and frightened. "I was dreaming that I was at home, and now—now—oh! dear St. Francis, have pity on me!"
Notwithstanding his own misery, both physical and mental, Costantino felt sorry for him. "Patience, my brother, I was dreaming too about being at home."
"I feel," cried another, "as though my soul were melting away. What the devil is the matter with this ship! It seems to be trying to dance the Sardian dance!" Whereat some of the others still had sufficient spirit left to laugh.
The storm was increasing. At times Costantino thought he was dying, and was frightened; yet, on the other hand, he felt an unutterable weariness of life. His soul seemed to be steeped in the same bitter fluid that his stomach was casting up. Never, not even at the moment when the sentence of condemnation had been passed upon him, had he experienced anything like his present condition of hopeless misery. He too began to swear and groan, doubling his fists, and twisting his chilled toes. "May you die just as I am dying now, you murderous dogs, who brought all this on me!" he muttered, while tears as bitter as gall welled up into his eyes.
Towards dawn the wind subsided, but even when the sickness had passed, Costantino found no relief; he felt as though he had been beaten to the point of death, and he was shaking with cold, and exhaustion, and dread. The steamer relentlessly pursued its way. Oh, if it would only stop for just one moment! A single moment of quiet, it seemed to Costantino, would suffice to restore his strength; but this continuous forging ahead, the constant rolling, the never-ceasing roar of the waves as they lashed the sides of the vessel, kept him in a state of nervous tremor. On, and on, and on; the long hours of agony dragged slowly by; night came again; and all the time his subtle-faced, yellow-visaged companion hardly ceased to sigh and lament, driving Costantino into a perfect frenzy of irritation. Sleep came at length, and then, strange to relate, he had the same dream as on the previous night, only this time it was Giovanna who was in the cradle, and the cradle was rocking quite gently.
When Costantino awoke, the boat seemed hardly to move; in the silence that precedes the dawn, he heard a voice say: "That is Procida."
He was shaking with cold, and wondered if they were to land there, where, he thought he remembered to have heard, the galleys were.
Presently his companion awoke, shivering and yawning prodigiously.
"Are we there?" asked Costantino. "How do you feel?"
"Pretty well. Are we there?"