Don Francesco
would never desert her. He would arrive in due course, explaining why
God had allowed the volcano to behave in this unseemly fashion, and
brimming over with words of consolation for his daughter-to-be. God, if
so disposed, could work a miracle and drive away the plague, even as he
had sent it. Ashes or no ashes, all was for the best. Calmly she
waited.
Out of doors, meanwhile, the shower went on without ceasing. It had
begun shortly after midnight; the ground was covered to the depth of
two inches. Nepenthe lay veiled in Cimmerian gloom, darker than
starless midnight--a darkness that could be felt; a blanket, as it were,
hot and breathless, weighing upon the landscape. All was silent. No
footfall could be heard in the streets; the powdery ashes, softer than
snow, absorbed every sound. And still they fell. Those few scared
natives whom necessity forced to go abroad crept about in fear of their
lives. They thought the end of the world had come. Terror-stricken,
they carried knives and revolvers in their pockets; they passed each
other distrustfully in the streets holding, in one hand, a lighted
torch or lantern, and in the other a handkerchief pressed to the face
for fear of suffocation.
Pages:
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458