“I am quite sure he speaks the truth,” Artois said, in French.
“Why do you come here?” asked the Marchesino.
“Signore, I come to fish.”
“For cigarettes?”
“No, Signore, for sarde. Buona notte, Signore.”
He turned away from them with decision, and went back to his boat.
“He is a Sicilian,” said Artois. “I would swear to it.”
“Why? Hark at his accent.”
“He is a Sicilian!”
“But why are you so sure?”