The wine, perhaps the excitement of his thoughts, animated Glyndon, whose unequal spirits were, at times, high and brilliant as those of a schoolboy released; and the laughter of the Northern tourists sounded oft and merrily along the melancholy domains of buried cities.

Hesperus had lighted his lamp amidst the rosy skies as they arrived at Resina.  Here they quitted their horses, and took mules and a guide.  As the sky grew darker and more dark, the mountain fire burned with an intense lustre.  In various streaks and streamlets, the fountain of flame rolled down the dark summit, and the Englishmen began to feel increase upon them, as they ascended, that sensation of solemnity and awe which makes the very atmosphere that surrounds the Giant of the Plains of the Antique Hades.

It was night, when, leaving the mules, they ascended on foot, accompanied by their guide, and a peasant who bore a rude torch.  The guide was a conversable, garrulous fellow, like most of his country and his calling; and Mervale, who possessed a sociable temper, loved to amuse or to instruct himself on every incidental occasion.

“Ah, Excellency,” said the guide, “your countrymen have a strong passion for the volcano.  Long life to them, they bring us plenty of money!  If our fortunes depended on the Neapolitans, we should starve.”

“True, they have no curiosity,” said Mervale.  “Do you remember, Glyndon, the contempt with which that old count said to us, ’You will go to Vesuvius, I suppose?  I have never been; why should I go?  You have cold, you have hunger, you have fatigue, you have danger, and all for nothing but to see fire, which looks just as well in a brazier as on a mountain.’  Ha! ha! the old fellow was right.”

“But, Excellency,” said the guide, “that is not all:  some cavaliers think to ascend the mountain without our help.  I am sure they deserve to tumble into the crater.”

“They must be bold fellows to go alone; you don’t often find such.”

“Sometimes among the French, signor.  But the other night—­I never was so frightened—­I had been with an English party, and a lady had left a pocket-book on the mountain, where she had been sketching.  She offered me a handsome sum to return for it, and bring it to her at Naples.  So I went in the evening.  I found it, sure enough, and was about to return, when I saw a figure that seemed to emerge from the crater itself.  The air there was so pestiferous that I could not have conceived a human creature could breathe it, and live.  I was so astounded that I stood still as a stone, till the figure came over the hot ashes, and stood before me, face to face.  Santa Maria, what a head!”

“What! hideous?”

“No; so beautiful, but so terrible.  It had nothing human in its aspect.”

“And what said the salamander?”