Mount Etna, the sun, the sea-what were they, compared with the maiden who knelt before the image of the Virgin, with her family, in prayer? The fires of Etna flashed in her deep blue eye, and, as I afterwards learned, the commotion of the volcano was but too true an exponent of her troubled heart. Her mouth was slightly parted; she prayed. But, alas! the voluptuousness of earthly passion glowed upon her swelling lip. Convulsively she clasped her delicate and almost transparent hands, while irrepressible emotion was legible in her trembling frame. I saw at once that she was no common worshipper. Her humid eyes constantly wandered from the marble image, scanning the distance with such earnestness and power, that, had I stood upon the summit of Etna, or lain in the depths of the sea, that look would have drawn me irresistibly thence. It was but too evident that those eyes had lost some object which no Madonna could restore to their longing sight. Her fair mother, upon whose placid features sat the blessed light of inward peace, knelt by her side. The mother was teaching a little girl of about six years to pray, and pointing to a cross sculptured upon the square stone pedestal. In a cradle near

them lay a sweetly-smiling infant, with its innocent eyes directed toward the cross and the Madonna above it. There were also others, women and maidens, kneeling before the image; but I heeded them not absorbed as I was in the contemplation of the strangely-expressive face of that praying girl.

She, also, prays in vain!"

Shrinking with sudden terror, I gazed around. Had my guide spoken? "Did you say something, Geronimo?"

66 Yes, my lord I meant that prayer never help the fair Marcella more."

I was silent.

would

"Old Etna has been a long time quiet. Pietro will soon rise again from the sea, and drag her with him under the waves."

These words, to me, were perfectly enigmatical. Etna-Pietro-I could not seize the connection. Geronimo perceived it.

"So you know not the story?"

"What story?"

"Of Pietro and Hermosa. Fifty years are

now past and gone."

"What was it, Geronimo?"

"Pietro was the handsomest youth in Syra

cuse; Hermosa, the fairest of Marcella's family.

Pietro was poor; Hermosa, rich. Pietro loved Hermosa. So far it is a common story. They could not be united; - how natural! Hermosa must marry another.

"During a terrible eruption of Mount Etna, poor Pietro, here, from this place, I know not exactly how, - threw himself into the sea. But he had no rest there: at times he comes again upon earth, in a form so fair and seductive, that the maiden who unfortunately beholds, must love him, and is irrevocably lost. On the evening before the wedding-day, Pietro sinks again beneath the waves, leaving his betrothed in despair. Hermosa was his first victim; the sea closed over her beauteous form. Eight days ago, Marcella's betrothed lover disappeared. I am satisfied he was no other than Pietro, and that he will surely compel her to follow him. He usually does this during an eruption of Etna. She is the fourth maiden of whom Pietro has robbed her family. How sad it is to know her impending fate, and be unable to afford her succor!"

Six months afterwards, I found myself again in Syracuse. My first visit was to the Madonna's shrine. The same family were kneeling

before it. Marcella's mother and sister were clad in deep mourning. Marcella was not there. The benignant face of the Madonna was now completely hid by the luxuriant vines. She hears and sees no more. The large cross

was partially covered by the foliage, and seemed to have increased in size.

Old Geronimo wept while he related to me how the delicate form of Marcella became a prey to the fury of the waves.

I am not superstitious; but I could not look upon the little child in the cradle, upon the sea beneath, and Mount Etna above me, without a shudder.