The Pirate City

CHAPTER ONE.

OPENS THE TALE.

Some time within the first quarter of the present nineteenth century, a
little old lady--some people would even have called her a dear little
old lady--sat one afternoon in a high-backed chair beside a cottage
window, from which might be had a magnificent view of Sicilian rocks,
with the Mediterranean beyond.

This little old lady was so pleasant in all respects that an adequate
description of her is an impossibility. Her mouth was a perfect study.
It was not troubled with anything in the shape of teeth. It lay between
a delicate little down-turned nose and a soft little up-turned chin,
which two seemed as if anxious to meet in order to protect it. The
wrinkles that surrounded that mouth were innumerable, and each wrinkle
was a distinct and separate smile; so that, whether pursing or
expanding, it was at all times rippling with an expression of tender
benignity.

This little old lady plays no part in our tale; nevertheless she merits
passing introduction as being the grandmother of our hero, a Sicilian
youth of nineteen, who, at the time we write of, sat on a stool at her
feet engaged in earnest conversation.

"Grandmother," said the youth in a perplexed mood, "why won't you let
_me_ go into the Church instead of brother Lucien? I'm certain that he
does not want to, though he is fit enough, as far as education goes, and
goodness; but you know well enough that he is desperately fond of
Juliet, and she is equally desperate about him, and nothing could be
more pleasant than that they should get married."

"Tut, child, you talk nonsense," said the old lady, letting a sigh
escape from the rippling mouth. "Your father's dearest wish has always
been to see Lucien enter the Church, and although Juliet is our adopted
child, we do not intend to interfere with the wishes of her uncle the
abbot, who has offered to place her in the convent of Saint Shutemup.
As to you taking Lucien's place,"--here the mouth expanded
considerably--"ah! Mariano, you are too foolish, too giddy; better
fitted to be a sailor or soldier I should think--"

"How!" interrupted Mariano. "Do you then estimate the profession of the
soldier and sailor so low, that you think only foolish and giddy fellows
are fit for it?"

"Not so, child; but it is a school which is eminently fitted to teach
respect and obedience to foolish and giddy fellows who are pert to their
grandmothers."