Fire, that is joy. It is good that fires can be lighted. Suddenly a great blaze flames up on Monte Pellegrino, just over the harbor. Mighty flames burst from all the pointed mountain walls surrounding the town. There are fires on Monte Falcone, on San Martino, on the mountain of The Thousands, where Garibaldi passed. Far out on the sea comes the big Naples steamer. And on the steamer is Bosco, the socialist. He cannot sleep that night. He has gone up from his cabin, and paces to and fro on the deck. And then his old mother, who has journeyed to Naples to meet him, comes from her cabin to keep him company. But he cannot talk with her. He is thinking that he will soon be at home. Ah, Palermo, Palermo! He has been in prison over two years. They have been two years of suffering and longing, and has it been of any good? That is what he wishes to know. Has it been of benefit that he has been faithful to the cause, and gone to prison? Has Palermo thought of him? Have his sufferings won the cause a single follower? His old mother sits crouched on the gangway, and shivers in the chill of the night. He has asked her, but she knows nothing of such things. She speaks of little Francesco and little Lina, how they have grown. She knows nothing of what he is struggling for. Now he comes to his mother, takes her by the wrist, leads her to the railing, and asks her if she sees anything far away to the south. She looks out over the water with her dim eyes, and sees only the night, only the black night on the water. She does not see at all that a cloud of fire is floating on the horizon. Then he begins to walk again, and she creeps down under cover. He does not need to talk to her; it is joy enough to have him home again after only two years’ absence. He was condemned to be away for twenty-four. She had not expected ever to see him again. But now the king has showed grace. For the king is a good man. If only he were allowed to be as good as he wished! Bosco walks across the deck, and asks the sailors if they do not see the golden cloud on the horizon. “That is Palermo,” say the seamen. “There is always a bright light floating over it at night.” It cannot be anything that concerns him. He tries to persuade himself that nothing is being done for him. He can hardly expect every one all at once to have become socialists. But after a while he thinks: “Still there must be something unusual going on. All the sailors are gathering forward at the bow.” “Palermo is burning,” say the seamen. Yes, that is what it must be.--It is because he has suffered so terribly that he expects something should be done for him. Then the sailors see the fires on the mountains. It cannot be a conflagration. It must be some saint’s day. They ask one another what day it is. He, too, tries to believe that it is some such thing. He asks his mother if it is a feast-day. They have so many of them.