A mutiny broke out in the vanguard, Noemi being the more petulant.

She turned on the _Dyver_, and stamping her foot, protested that she would go home if this most tiresome novelist in a muffler did not cease ordering and complaining.

Jeanne then whispered: "Tell me about your monk." "The monk, oh yes," answered Noemi, and called to Carlino that they would try to satisfy him, but that he must keep farther off.
From the Quai du Rosaire the swans were no longer visible.

Noemi had watched them in the morning, disporting themselves on the water, blurring with their stately movements the still reflection of that pile of houses and cottages that raise their long, big-eared faces out of the water, like weird, glutted beasts, staring stupidly, some in one direction, some in another, all herded together by the dominating tower of the Halles.

The moon shone across the houses, throwing shadows on some glorifying roof-tree and pinnacle, the peaked cap of a Chaldean magician which crowned a little turret, and above it all, stood out the sublime octagonal diadem of the mighty tower.