“Those fishermen have gone?”
“Five minutes ago, Signore. There they are!”
He pointed to a boat at some distance, moving slowly in the direction of Posilipo.
“I have been talking with them. One says he is of my country, a Sicilian.”
“The boy?”
“Si, Signore, the giovinotto. But he cannot speak Sicilian, and he has never been in Sicily, poveretto!”
Gaspare spoke with an accent of pity in which there was almost a hint of contempt.
“A rivederci, Signore,” he added, pushing off the little boat.
“A rivederci, Gaspare.”
Artois took the oars and paddled very gently out, keeping near to the cliffs of the opposite shore.