Zirlo did not hear; he was so aghast at his own plight that he was scarcely sensible. Above head the tempest was pealing with awful fury; the echoes of the thunder pealed through the hollowed rocks; but the tomb was a safe shelter, the goats gathered themselves together against the bed of the vanished king, and were no more afraid: they bleated gently, that was all.
'They say their prayers,' said Musa. 'Say yours if you are so timid.'
Zivlo began to murmur words that he had been taught to say at mass.
Musa stood and looked at him in the semi-darkness, with pity and contempt.
'What would you do on the sea,' she said, 'when there is a storm? There are fifty every summer.'
'I was not frightened when I was on my face,' whispered Zefferino trembling. 'But this place, this dark cold place—where am I? And your eyes blaze so; you frighten me more.'
'Do my eyes blaze?' said Musa, who was pleased to hear it. 'If they do, it is because you are such a coward. Zirlo do they call you? A thrush would have more sense. This is mine, mine, do you
