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Black on a shimmering expanse of
starry sky and pearly cloud-wreaths, the figures
of the fettered, struggling slaves stood out in
vain and vehement protest against a merciless
doom.
The man approached unsteadily along the water
side, shouting an English street song. He was
evidently a sailor returning from a carouse at some
tavern. No one else was within sight. As he
drew near, Arthur stood up and stepped into the
middle of the roadway. The sailor broke off in
his song with an oath, and stopped short.
"I want to speak to you," Arthur said in
Italian. "Do you understand me?"
The man shook his head. "It's no use talking
that patter to me," he said; then, plunging into
bad French, asked sullenly: "What do you want?
Why can't you let me pass?"
"Just come out of the light here a minute; I
want to speak to you."
"Ah! wouldn't you like it? Out of the light!
Got a knife anywhere about you?"
"No, no, man! Can't you see I only want your
help? I'll pay you for it?"
"Eh? What? And dressed like a swell,
too------" The sailor had relapsed into English.


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