Finally, as the procession started and the hoofs clattered on the hard road leading up over the mountain, people crowded out on the little iron balconies, heads appeared at the windows—­heads that seemed gigantic by comparison with the miniature houses, which were painted brilliant pink and blue, mauve and Naples yellow.

As the road ascended, it turned inward away from the sea, and after a short distance narrowed into a rocky mountain path that looked like the dry bed of a stream, winding through the wilderness.  After an hour’s ride the character of the landscape changed.  The semi-tropical vegetation grew gradually sparse, and after a while in the distance, seemingly in the midst of the path, a great rock loomed gigantic and gaunt, cutting in two the blue dome of the sky.  Still farther on, they came upon stretches of straggling wild peach, olive, and lemon trees.  Beyond again, tangles of hawthorn were interspersed with patches of dried weeds and grass.  But as they neared the mining district the soil was bleak and barren.  The mountain rivers were dry, and their beds made yawning gaps as though the earth had violently shuddered at her own desolation.

At last, about noon, they came to the village of Vencata Minore, which stood in a little plain of green.  The house of Donna Marcella was set on a slight eminence and, compared with the surrounding habitations, was quite pretentious.  It was kalsomined white, had a courtyard of its own, and back of it was a little fruit and flower garden.  Donna Marcella was a buxom, thrifty, and dominating woman.  Had she been a man she would assuredly have migrated to America and become a captain of industry; however, circumstances having placed her under heavier responsibilities, she came smiling to the door, followed by a troop of brown-skinned and curly-haired babies.  She courtesied and beamed and gesticulated her delighted welcome of the strangers and, upon being shown the archbishop’s missive, kissed the red seal.  A few words were intelligible to her, but the reading of a whole letter was beyond the measure of her accomplishments, and she looked to Padre Filippo to explain.  She could write the few nouns and do sums quite well enough, though, to make out the bills for her occasional guests,—­if in doubt she added another figure.

Sometimes she had guests—­ah, but illustrious!  The Gran Signore, Sua Eccellenza il Duca di Scorpa—­that name to be whispered, and yet to be dwelt upon—­no less a personage than such an exaltedness had come to sleep a night under her humble roof!  The distinguished forestieri should have the very room His Eccellentissimo had occupied!  She seemed to choose among the Americans by instinct, assigning to Derby and Porter this apartment in which she took such evident pride.

It was, in fact, airy and good sized, scantily furnished, but scrupulously clean, and with two great beds heaped high with the red and yellow flowered quilts which in Sicilian houses serve the double purpose of warmth and decoration:  not alone do they lend supreme elegance to the bedrooms, but suspended from the windows, they most gayly embellish the house front on days of festa.