about, though I could not expect to see any face that I knew; it is so many years since I lived at Serveti that even were the carters from my old place I should have forgotten how they looked.  Suddenly, at the corner of a dirty street, where there was a little blue and white shrine to the Madonna, I stumbled against a burly fellow with a gray beard carrying a bit of salt codfish in one hand and a cake of corn bread in the other, eating as he went.

“Gigi!” I cried, in delight, when I recognised the old carrettiere who used to bring me grapes and wine, and still does when the fancy takes him.

“Dio mio!  Signor Conte!” he cried, with his mouth full, and holding up the bread and fish with his two hands, in astonishment.  When he recovered himself he instantly offered to share his meal with me, as the poorest wretch in Italy will offer his crust to the greatest prince, out of politeness.  “Vuol favorire?” he said, smiling.

I thanked him and declined, as you may imagine.  Then I asked him how he came to be in Palestrina; and he told me that he was often there in the winter, as his sister had married a vine-dresser of the place, of whom he bought wine occasionally.  Very well-to-do people, he explained, eagerly, proud of his prosperous relations.

We clambered along through the rough street together, and I asked him what was the news from Serveti and from that part of the country, well knowing that if he had heard of any rich foreigners in that neighbourhood he would at once tell me of it.  But I had not much hope.  He talked about the prospects of the vines, and such things, for some time, and I listened patiently.

“By the by,” he said at last, “there is a gran signore who is gone to live in Fillettino,—­a crazy man, they say, with a beautiful daughter, but really beautiful, as an angel.”

I was so much surprised that I made a loud exclamation.

“What is the matter?” asked Gigi.

“It is nothing, Gigi,” I answered, for I was afraid lest he should betray my secret, if I let him guess it.  “It is nothing.  I struck my foot against a stone.  But you were telling about a foreigner who is gone to live somewhere.  Fillettino?  Where is that?”

“Oh, the place of the diavolo!  I do not wonder you do not know, conte, for gentlemen never go there.  It is in the Abruzzi, beyond Trevi.  Did you ever hear of the Serra di Sant’ Antonio, where so many people have been killed?”

“Diana!  I should think so!  In the old days—­”

“Bene,” said Gigi, “Fillettino is there, at the beginning of the pass.”

“Tell me, Gigi mio,” I said, “are you not very thirsty?” The way to the heart of the wine carter lies through a pint measure.  Gigi was thirsty, as I supposed, and we sat down in the porch of my inn, and the host brought a stoup of his best wine and set it before us.

“I would like to hear about the crazy foreigner who is gone to live in the hills among the brigand,” I said, when he had wet his throat.