There was but the slightest quiver in the Eastern part of Sicily one day last week. The silvery olive trees rustled for a moment although there was no wind. By the eastern coast, the Mediterranean waters gulped uneasily.

The peasants in the half dozen villages and towns at the foot of Mt. Etna knew. And even in Catania, some twenty miles away, they knew for they had been destroyed before.

Mascali was most certainly the town which first would be obliterated. Here young peasant maids crossed themselves, paused a moment at the churches....

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