Then came a rattle and a sharp creak as the main-yard swung over and came down on deck, the men taking in the bellying canvas with wide open arms and old Luigione catching the end of the yard on his shoulder while he steered with his knees, his great gaunt profile black against the bright sky.

Down foresail, and the good felucca forges ahead and rounds the little breakwater.

Let go the anchor and she is at rest after her long voyage.

For the season has not been good and she has been hauled on a dozen beaches before she could sell her cargo.

The men are all as brown as mahogany, and as lean as wolves, for it has been a voyage with share and share alike for all the crew and they have starved themselves to bring home more money to their wives.
Then there is some bustle and confusion, as Luigione brings the papers ashore and friends crowd around the felucca in boats, asking for news and all talking at once.
"We have been in your town, Ruggiero," said one of the men, looking down into the little boat.
"I hope you gave a message from me to Don Pietro Casale," answered Ruggiero.
"Health to us, Don Pietro is dead," said the man, "and his wife is not likely to live long either." "Dead, eh ?" cried Bastianello.