had appeared, bringing all for which he had been sent. The money was the whole, or very nearly, of his three months' pay just drawn—some two hundred pounds or less of circular-notes in a chamois-leather pouch. He left, unseen, several gold pieces of it in a wooden bowl from which the fisherman was used to drink his onion-soup, then slipped the pistols in his sash and the pouch in his shirt, and turned again to Nicolò.
"Now take me across, some way off Naples if you can, and let me land unnoticed in the nearest route for Antina."
The marinaro, with all the alacrity of his craft, had ready his sailing-boat, a small lugger, awkward but seaworthy, in very little time, and, with his eldest son at the helm, pushed off once more into deep water. Erceldoune sat silent and deep in thought, the hound at his feet, couched on the bottom of the vessel, watching him ever with deep, keen, mournful eyes. The day was beautifully still; the bay alive with innumerable craft, and gay with sails of tawny stripes and flags of all nations' hues. Naples lay white and matchless in her sunlit grace; he saw no more of the glory about him than though he were blind. He thought they sailed slowly as a death-barge; in truth, the lugger danced over the light
