The great desert was very cruel to the poor oasis.
II
IN PALERMO
At last, at last, it is one o’clock at night. Those who are afraid to oversleep rise from their beds, dress themselves and go out into the street.
And those who have sat and hung over a café table till now start up when they hear steps echo on the stone pavements. They shake the drowsiness from their bodies and hurry out. They mingle in the swiftly increasing stream of people, and the heavy feet of Time begin to move a little faster.
Mere acquaintances press each other’s hands with heartfelt warmth. It is plain that the same enthusiasm fills all souls. And the most absurd people are out; old university professors, distinguished noblemen and fine ladies, who otherwise never set their foot in the street. They are all equally joyous.
“God! God! that he is coming, that Palermo is to have him back again!” they say.
The Palermo students, who have not moved from their usual headquarters in Quattro Canti all night, have provided torches and colored lanterns. They were not to be lighted till four o’clock, when the man they expected was to come; but about two o’clock one or two of them begin to try whether their torches burn well. Then they light everything and greet the flames with cheers. It is impossible to stand in darkness when so much joy is burning within them.
In the hotels the travellers are waked and urged to get up. “There is a festival in Palermo to-night, O signori!”