Now he remembered, lifted himself up, and looked towards the doorway. The first rays of the sun were filtering in and sparkling in the distance upon the sea. The east was barred with red.
He slipped down from the bed.
"The frittura!" he said, in English. "I must make haste!"
Maddalena laughed. She had never heard English before.
"Ditelo ancora!" she cried, eagerly.
They went but together on to the plateau and stood looking seaward.
"I—must—make—haste!" he said, speaking slowly and dividing the words.
"Hi—maust—maiki—'ai—isti!" she repeated, trying to imitate his accent.
He burst out laughing. She pouted. Then she laughed, too, peal upon peal, while the sunlight grew stronger about them. How fresh the wind was! It played with her hair, from which she had now removed the handkerchief, and ruffled the little feathers of gold upon her brow. It blew about her smooth, young face as if it loved to touch the soft cheeks, the innocent lips, the candid, unlined brow. The leaves of the olive-trees rustled and the brambles and the grasses swayed. Everything was in movement, stirring gayly into life to greet the coming day. Maurice opened his mouth and drew in the air to his lungs, expanding his chest. He felt inclined to dance, to sing, and very much inclined to eat.
"Addio, Maddalena!" he said, holding out his hand.