The group about the well now included almost every able-bodied person in the village, and several of the cripples, who cried out if any pushed upon them.  Into the midst of this inward-bent circle of heads the village priest elbowed his way, a short and rotund father, with a frown on his face which evidently had no right there.

“Story-tellers!” he exclaimed.  “There is no need for such in my village.  We grow our own.  Thou, Beppo, art enough for a municipality, and thou, Andrea.  But what have we here?”

He paused open-mouthed.  He had expected the usual whining, mumping beggar; and lo, here were two well-attired forestieri with their packs on their backs and their hats upon their heads.  But we stood up, and in due form saluted the father, keeping our hats in our hands till he, pleased at this recognition and deference before his flock, signed to us courteously to put them on again.

After this, nothing would do but we must go with him to his house and share with him a bottle of the noble wine of Montepulciano.

“It is the wine of my brother, who is there in the cure of souls,” he said.  “Ah, he is a judge of wine, my brother.  It is a fine place, not like this beast of a village, inhabited by bad heretics and worse Catholics.”

“Bad Protestants—­who are they?” I said, for I had been reared in the belief that all Protestants were good—­except, perhaps, they were English Episcopalians.  Specially all Protestants in the lands of Rome were good by nature.

The priest looked at us with a question in his eye.

“You are of the Church, it may be?” asked he, evidently thinking of our reverence at the well-stoop.

We shook our heads.

“It matters not,” said the easy father; “you are, I perceive, good Christians.  Not like these people of Spellino, who care neither for priest nor pastor.”

“There he goes,” said the priest, pointing out of the window at a man in plain and homely black who went by—­the sight of whom, as he went, took me back to the village streets of Dullarg when I saw the minister go by.  I had a sense that I ought to have been out there with him, instead of sitting in the presbytery of the Pope’s priest.  But the father thought not of that, and the Montepulciano was certainly most excellent.  “A bad, bad village,” said the father, looking about him as if in search of something.

“Margherita!” he cried suddenly.

An old woman appeared, dropping a bleared courtesy, unlike her queenly name.

“What have you for dinner, Margherita?

“Enough for one; not enough for three, and they hungry off the road,” she said.  “If thou, O father, art about to feed the lazzaroni of the north and south thou must at least give some notice, and engage another servant!”

“Nay, good Margherita,” answered the priest very meekly, “there is enough boiled fowl and risotto of liver and rice to serve half a score of appetites.  See to it,” he said.