That was a fearful moment for one like Don
Francesco Caraccioli, who had passed a long life in the midst of the
scene that surrounded him--illustrious by birth, affluent, honored for
his services, and accustomed to respect and deference. Never had the
glorious panorama of the bay appeared more lovely than it did at that
instant, when he was about to quit it for ever, by a violent and
disgraceful death. From the purple mountains--the cerulean void above
him--the blue waters over which he seemed already to be suspended--and
the basking shores, rich in their towns, villas, and vines, his eye
turned toward the world of ships, each alive with its masses of living
men. A glance of melancholy reproach was cast upon the little flag that
was just waving at the mizzen-masthead of the Foudroyant; and then it
fell on the carpet of faces beneath, that seemed fairly to change the
surface of the smooth sea into an arena of human countenances. His look
was steady, though his soul was in a tumult. Ghita was recognized by her
companion and by her dress. He moved toward the edge of his narrow
scaffolding, endeavored to stretch forth his arms, and blessed her again
aloud. The poor girl dropped on her knees in the bottom of the boat,
bowed her head, and in that humble attitude did she remain until all was
over; not daring once to look upward again.
"Son," said the priest, "this is a moment when the earth and its
feelings must be forgotten."
"I know it, father," answered the old man, his voice trembling with
emotion, for his sensations were too powerful, too sublime, even, for
the degrading passion of fear--"but never before did this fair piece of
the creation seem so lovely in my eyes as now, when I am about to quit
it for the last time.
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