So Valeria was the name of the heroine of the donkey episode.  As she held a small oil-lamp aloft, I perceived that the room in which I was to spend the night had more the appearance of a cellar than a chamber; it had been excavated on two sides from the bank, on the third there was a small hole about six inches square, apparently communicating with another room, and on the fourth was the door by which I had entered, and which opened into the kitchen and general living-room of the inhabitants.  There was a heap of onions running to seed, the fagots of firewood which Valeria had brought that afternoon, and an old cask or two.

“Won’t you give him some kind of a bed?” she asked Croppo.

“Bah! he can sleep on the onions,” responded that worthy.  “If he had been more civil and intelligent he should have had something to eat.  You three,” he went on, turning to the other men, “sleep in the kitchen, and watch that the prisoner does not escape.  The door has a strong bolt besides.  Come, Valeria.”

And the pair disappeared, leaving me in a dense gloom, strongly pervaded by an odour of fungus and decaying onions.  Groping into one of the casks, I found some straw, and spreading it on a piece of plank, I prepared to pass the night sitting with my back to the driest piece of wall I could find, which happened to be immediately under the airhole, a fortunate circumstance, as the closeness was often stifling.  I had probably been dozing for some time in a sitting position, when I felt something tickle the top of my head.  The idea that it might be a large spider caused me to start, when stretching up my hand, it came in contact with what seemed to be a rag, which I had not observed.  Getting carefully up, I perceived a faint light gleaming through the aperture, and then saw that a hand was protruded through it, apparently waving the rag.  As I felt instinctively that the hand was Valeria’s, I seized the finger-tips, which was all I could get hold of, and pressed them to my lips.  They were quickly drawn away, and then the whisper reached my ears—­

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Then eat this,” and she passed me a tin pannikin full of cold macaroni, which would just go through the opening.

“Dear Valeria,” I said, with my mouth full, “how good and thoughtful you are!”

“Hush! he’ll hear.”

“Who?”

“Croppo.”

“Where is he?”

“Asleep in the bed just behind me.”

“How do you come to be in his bedroom?”

“Because I’m his wife.”

“Oh!” A long pause during which I collapsed upon my straw seat, and swallowed macaroni thoughtfully.  As the result of my meditations—­“Valeria carissima.”

“Hush!  Yes.”

“Can’t you get me out of this infernal den?”

“Perhaps, if they all three sleep in the kitchen; at present one is awake.  Watch for my signal, and if they all three sleep, I will manage to slip the bolt.  Then you must give me time to get back into bed, and when you hear me snore you may make the attempt.  They are all three sleeping on the floor, so be very careful where you tread; I will also leave the front door a little open, so that you can slip through without noise.”