"America is the country for a sharp-witted man to make his fortune in," said Artois, returning his gaze.
"Si, signore. Many go from here. I know many who are working in America. But one must have money to pay the ticket."
"Yes. This terreno belongs to you?"
"Only the bit where the house stands, signore. And it is all rocks. It is no use to any one. And in winter the winds come over it. Why, it would take years of work to turn it into anything. And I am not a contadino. Once I had a wine-shop, but I am a man of the sea."
"But you are a man with sharp wits. I should think you would do well in America. Others do, and why not you?"
They looked at each other hard for a full minute. Then Salvatore said, slowly:
"Signore, I will tell you the truth. It is the truth. I would swear it with sea-water on my lips. If I had the money I would go to America. I would take the first ship."
"And your daughter, Maddalena? You couldn't leave her behind you?"
"Signore, if I were ever to go to America you may be sure I should take Maddalena with me."
"I think you would," Artois said, still looking at the man full in the eyes. "I think it would be wiser to take Maddalena with you."