We sweep away to the left round the base of the hill, over a difficult and stony path.  Soon the last dilapidated villa is passed, the last terrace and olive-tree are left behind; and we emerge upon a wild, rocky slope, barren of vegetation, except little tufts of grass and a sort of lentil; a wide sweep of limestone strata set on edge, and crumbling in the beat of centuries, rising to a considerable height on the left.  Our path descends toward the sea, still creeping round the end of the promontory.  Scattered here and there over the rocks, like conies, are peasants, tending a few lean cattle, and digging grasses from the crevices.  The women and children are wild in attire and manner, and set up a clamor of begging as we pass.  A group of old hags begin beating a poor child as we approach, to excite our compassion for the abused little object, and draw out centimes.

Walking ahead of the procession, which gets slowly down the rugged path, I lose sight of my companions, and have the solitude, the sun on the rocks, the glistening sea, all to myself.  Soon I espy a man below me sauntering down among the rocks.  He sees me and moves away, a solitary figure.  I say solitary; and so it is in effect, although he is leading a little boy, and calling to his dog, which runs back to bark at me.  Is this the brigand of whom I have read, and is he luring me to his haunt?  Probably.  I follow.  He throws his cloak about his shoulders, exactly as brigands do in the opera, and loiters on.  At last there is the point in sight, a gray wall with blind arches.  The man disappears through a narrow archway, and I follow.  Within is an enormous square tower.  I think it was built in Spanish days, as an outlook for Barbary pirates.  A bell hung in it, which was set clanging when the white sails of the robbers appeared to the southward; and the alarm was repeated up the coast, the towers were manned, and the brown-cheeked girls flew away to the hills, I doubt not, for the touch of the sirocco was not half so much to be dreaded as the rough importunity of a Saracen lover.  The bell is gone now, and no Moslem rovers are in sight.  The maidens we had just passed would be safe if there were.  My brigand disappears round the tower; and I follow down steps, by a white wall, and lo! a house,—­a red stucco, Egyptian-looking building,—­on the very edge of the rocks.  The man unlocks a door and goes in.  I consider this an invitation, and enter.  On one side of the passage a sleeping-room, on the other a kitchen,—­not sumptuous quarters; and we come then upon a pretty circular terrace; and there, in its glass case, is the lantern of the point.  My brigand is a lighthouse-keeper, and welcomes me in a quiet way, glad, evidently, to see the face of a civilized being.  It is very solitary, he says.  I should think so.  It is the end of everything.  The Mediterranean waves beat with a dull thud on the worn crags below.  The rocks rise up to the sky behind.  There is nothing there but the sun, an occasional sail, and quiet, petrified Capri, three miles distant across the strait.  It is an excellent place for a misanthrope to spend a week, and get cured.  There must be a very dispiriting influence prevailing here; the keeper refused to take any money, the solitary Italian we have seen so affected.