“Palermo is burning,” say the seamen.
Yes, that is what it must be.—It is because he has suffered so terribly that he expects something should be done for him.
Then the sailors see the fires on the mountains.
It cannot be a conflagration. It must be some saint’s day. They ask one another what day it is.
He, too, tries to believe that it is some such thing. He asks his mother if it is a feast-day. They have so many of them.
They come nearer and nearer. The thundering sound of the festival in the great city meets them.
“All Palermo is singing and playing to-night,” says one.
“A telegram must have come of a victory in Africa,” says another.
No one has a thought that it can be for his sake. He goes and places himself at the stern in order not to see anything. He will not deceive himself with false hopes. Would all Palermo be illuminated for a poor socialist?