Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/1003

A Fisherman's Home on Tavolara

the tooting of horns, and the waving of lanterns. By the smoky light, I groped my way into a railway-carriage. "Pronto," called the guards. "Partenza," cried the Capo di Stazione. We were off, the train and I.

As soon as I realized my danger, I rummaged for my gauntlets and mask, put them on, and peered through the goggles, as we drew up at the next station, to see what was the prevailing mode among the Sardes. A foolish woman saw me and gave a scream, a man fell into the carriage and fell out again, making horns with his fingers to keep off the evil eye, and, attracted by the commotion, people came running up in all directions. I was so annoyed that I tore off my preventive in order to say a few things more clearly, but when I did so, order was immediately restored, and the crowd about the door edged away, laughing sheepishly. As none of them wore masks of any kind, I did not resume mine. Heaven knows I was never one to be conspicuous—malaria has less horror for me. But all the same I kept that mask for Paris.

Then followed two hours, by train, of dull green and brown moorland, the only note of color except the red geraniums around the station platforms. I peered out, hoping to get a glimpse of the noraghe—the stone mounds scattered throughout Sardinia—that are supposed to have been temples to unknown gods, and which now serve excellently as cowsheds, but not so much as a dairy broke the dreariness of the scene. I thought of Cicero's speech in behalf of the Sarde poet Tigellinus. "I esteem it an advantage," he said, "that I am not pleading for a man more pestilential than his country." I felt uncertain, and like a child at a party seeking for a hidden article, and wondering whether he was "hot or cold." As the day brightened, I turned toward the bay and looked across the tranquil water, and as I looked, my heart gave a big, old-fashioned throb. I let down the glass hurriedly, thrust out my head, and strained my eyes.