They come nearer and nearer. The thundering sound of the festival in the great city meets them. “All Palermo is singing and playing to-night,” says one. “A telegram must have come of a victory in Africa,” says another. No one has a thought that it can be for his sake. He goes and places himself at the stern in order not to see anything. He will not deceive himself with false hopes. Would all Palermo be illuminated for a poor socialist? Then his mother comes and fetches him. “Do not stand there! Come and see Palermo! It must be a king who is coming there to-day. Come and look at Palermo!” He considers a moment. No, he does not think that any king is visiting Sicily just now. But he cannot dare to think, when no one else, not even his mother-- All at once every one on the steamer gives a loud cry. It sounds almost like a cry of distress. A big cutter has steered right down on them and now glides along by the steamer’s side. The cutter is all flowers and lights; over the railing hang red and white silken draperies, everybody on board is dressed in red and white. Bosco stands on the steamer and looks to see what that beautiful messenger brings. Then the sail turns, and on its white surface shines to meet him: “Long live Bosco!” It is his name. Not a saint’s, not a king’s, not the victorious general’s! The homage is for no other on the steamer. His name, his name! The cutter sends up some rockets; a whole cloud of stars rain down, and then it is gone. He enters the harbor, and there is jubilation and enthusiasm and cheering and adoration. People say: “We do not know how he will be able to live through it.” But as soon as he realizes the homage, he feels that he does not at all deserve it. He would like to fall on his knees before those hundred and fifty thousand people who pay him homage and pray to them for forgiveness that he is so powerless, that he has done nothing for them. * * * * * As though by a special fate, Donna Micaela is in Palermo that night. She is there to start one of those new undertakings which she thinks she ought to organize in order to retain life and reason. She is probably there either on account of the draining or of the marble quarry. She is down at the harbor; like all the others. People notice her as she pushes her way forward to the edge of the water: a tall, dark woman, with an air of being some one, a pale face with marked features and imploring, longing, passionate eyes. During the reception in the harbor, Donna Micaela is fighting out a strange struggle. “If it were Gaetano,” she thinks, “could I, could I-- “If it were for him all these people were rejoicing, could I--”