I lay on a bundle of sails listening to the skipper’s legends of the young Count of Caulonia, who fell in love with a mermaid that arose from her coral cave in the Gulf of Gierazzo, and sat beneath his castle walls singing as the syrens sung to Ulysses; and of the wondrous demon fish caught in Naples, in 1722, with a man in armour in its stomach; and Heaven knows what more. Hearing the dash of oars alongside the _Echino_, as Zamori’s bark was named, and seeing a boat shoot under her quarter, I leapt up. I went to the side and received Catanio, who handed up Francesca D’Alfieri. The poor girl was so happy to find herself free, and entrusted to my care, that she could only weep with joy; uttering sobs in the depths of an ample satin faldetta which the abbess had given her, with two rosemary sprigs sewn crosswise in front, to scare away evil spirits. "Farewell to you, captain!" said Catanio, or Duncan Catanach; "do not forget us when you go home to the land we love so well." "Good-bye: God bless you, old man!" I replied, as the boat was pushed off and moved shoreward. The dark grave has long closed over the faithful Catanach and his illustrious master; but memory yet recalls the old man’s visage: I can see it as I saw it then; clouded by honest sorrow, and its hard wrinkled features tinged by the light of the moon. An hour afterwards we were ploughing the waters of the gulf, with the broad latteen sail of the _Echino_ bellying taut before the breeze as she cleft the billows with her sharp-beaked prow. Zamori grasped the tiller with important confidence; the crew, his two athletic and black-browed sons, remained forward, and I seated myself beside the signora, who permitting her hood to fall back, the moon shone on her beautiful features and glossy hair. So dangerous an attraction near old Zamori disturbed his steering, and the _Echino_ yawed till her sail flapped to the mast. "A sweet face!" he muttered, as the boat careened over; "but it will work mischief, like the mermaids." "O, signor, I am happy, so very happy!" said Francesca: the richness of her tone, and the artlessness of her manner moved me. "Shall we soon see Calabria?" "That is Capo Trionto," said I, pointing ahead. "Dear Calabria!" she exclaimed, kissing her hand to the distant coast; "there was a time when I thought never to behold thee more! Beautiful star!" continued the enthusiastic girl, pointing to a twinkling orb: "Signor, is it not lovely? alas! ’t is gone: perhaps it is a world!" she added, clasping her hands, as it shot from its place and vanished. The increasing roughness of the sea, as we sailed along the high Calabrian coast, soon made Francesca uneasy: her prattle died away; she became very sick, and lay in the stern-sheets of the boat, covered up with Zamori’s warm storm jacket, and a spare jib: both rather coarse coverings for a beautiful and delicate female. At length she slept; and I was left for a time to my own reflections.