The volcano was more than usually brilliant, and the villages at its base, appeared as clear as at noonday.
The water's surface was not ruffled by a ripple. A bridal party was following in the wake of their boat--and nuptial music was floating past them in subdued cadence.
A nameless regret filled their minds, as they thought of the journey on the coming morrow. They had been so happy in Naples. Could they hope to be happier elsewhere?
It was midnight, when they returned to the hotel. As they neared its portico, the round cold moon fell on the forms of the lazzaroni, who were lying in groups round the pillars.
One of the party sprang to his feet, alarming the slumberers. The whole of them rose with admirable cheerfulness--took off their hats respectfully--and made way for the forestieri.
During the momentary pause that ensued, Acmé turned to the volcano, and playfully waved her hand in token of farewell.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she clung heavily to George's arm.
She was doomed never to look on that scene again.