“Such a storm, Madre! The sea is a mass of foam. It’s glorious! Hark at the fishermen!”
From the blackness below rose hoarse shouts and prolonged calls—some near, some far. Faintly with them mingled the quavering and throaty voice of the blind man, now raised in “Santa Lucia.”
“What are we going to do, Monsieur Emile?”
“We must get home at once before it gets worse,” said Hermione. “Marchese, I am so sorry, but I am afraid we must ask for the launch.”
“But, madame, it is only a squall. By midnight it will be all over. I promise you. I am a Neapolitan.”
“Ah, but you promised that there would be no storm at all.”
“Sa-a-nta-a Lu-u-ci-i-a! Santa Lu-cia!”
The blind man sounded like one in agony. The thunder crashed again just above him, as if it desired to beat down his sickly voice.
Artois felt a sharp stab of neuralgia over his eyes.
Behind, in the restaurant, the waiters were running over the pavement to shut the great windows. The rush of the rain made a noise like quantities of silk rustling.