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Boom! It reverberated among the rocks. The
rowers dropped their oars. Everyone listened.
The sound came again. This time there was no question as to its origin.
It was artillery, beyond a doubt.
The old sailor had grown preternaturally grave.
"IL CANNONE DEL DUCA," he said.
The cannon of the Good Duke Alfred, never used save on urgent or solemn
occasions, was being discharged.
Then the boatman made another remark, in Italian, to Keith.
"What does he say?" asked Mr. Heard.
"He thinks they must be calling out the militia."
Something was very wrong, up yonder, on the market-place.



CHAPTER XIX


The cannon, to be hereinafter described, is not the sole surviving
relic of the Good Duke's rule. Turn where you please on this island
domain, memories of that charming and incisive personality will meet
your eye and ear; memories in stone-schools, convents, decayed castles
and bathing chalets; memories in the spoken word--proverbs attributed to
him, legends and traditions of his sagacity that still linger among the
populace.


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