“This poetic omission on the part of Perrelli to mention the sirocco?”

“It has given me a deal of extra work, I can assure you.  I have had to go into the whole question.  I have tabulated no less than fifty-seven varieties of sirocco.  Sailors’ words, most of them; together with a handful of antiquated terms.  Fifty-seven varieties.  Twenty-three thousand words, up to the present, dealing the with south wind.”

“That is a fair-sized foot-note,” laughed the bishop.  “A good slice of a book, I should call it.”

“My foot-notes are to be printed in small type.  In fact, I am thinking of casting the whole of this sirocco—­material into an appendix.  Too much, you think?  Surely the number of words is not disproportionate to the subject?  The south wind is a good slice of Nepenthe, is it not? . . .  Look!  That cloud has made up its mind to come our way after all.  There will be another shower of ashes.  Sirocco, you observe. . . .”

The terrace, meanwhile, had become crowded.  Already the evening sun was slightly obscured behind a brown haze.  Ashes were traveling fast.  They began to fall, softly.

What was to be done?  Everybody, mindful of the previous experience, was in favour of a second procession to take place immediately.  The parroco held the same opinion.  For form’s sake, however, he dispatched a confidential messenger to learn the views of Mr. Parker, who was sitting dejectedly in his study with the incomplete Financial Report still staring him in the face.  The Commissioner pulled himself together with praiseworthy alacrity and gave his whole mind to the question.

No.  On due consideration, he was opposed to the idea of a procession.  Having enjoyed, in various continents and various capacities, some experience of backing the same horse twice over, Mr. Parker was not in favour of demanding a second largesse from the Saint.  It might spoil everything, he said.  Let them wait till next morning.  If there was a deep fall like last time, the experiment might be worth trying.  But not just yet!  While admitting that something ought to be done, it struck him as a hazardous proceeding to play fast and loose, in this fashion, with the reputation of a Saint.

His Reverence, duly impressed, waited for half an hour.  It was then seen that the Nicaraguan Representative had once more given the soundest of advice.  The downpour of ashes ceased abruptly, at the moment when the sun sank into the sea.  No mischief was done.

Late at night another phenomenon became visible.  The volcano was observed to be in violent eruption.  It blazed forth like a gigantic torch held into the heavens.  Streams of lava poured down the mountain flanks, reddening sky and sea.

Nepenthe was consoled by the spectacle.  The demon had at last found an outlet—­a method of relief.  There would be no more showers of ashes.  The fact that villages were being overwhelmed under a deluge of flame, vineyards scorched and hundreds of innocent folks, their retreat cut off by fiery torrents, were even then being roasted to death, was no concern to the islanders.  It only proved what every one knew:  that the jurisdiction of their Patron Saint did not extend to the mainland.