At windings of the way I frequently caught sight of Squillace itself, high and far, its white houses dull-gleaming against the lurid sky.  The crag on which it stands is higher than that of Catanzaro, but of softer ascent.  As we approached I sought for signs of a road that would lead us upward, but nothing of the sort could be discerned; presently I became aware that we were turning into a side valley, and, to all appearances, going quite away from the town.  The explanation was that the ascent lay on the further slope; we began at length to climb the back of the mountain, and here I noticed with a revival of hope that there was a lull in the tempest; rain no longer fell so heavily; the clouds seemed to be breaking apart.  A beam of sunshine would have set me singing with joy.  When half-way up, my driver rested his horses and came to speak a word; we conversed merrily.  He was to make straight for the hotel, where shelter and food awaited us—­a bottle of wine, ha! ha!  He knew the hotel, of course?  Oh yes, he knew the hotel; it stood just at the entrance to the town; we should arrive in half an hour.

Looking upwards I saw nothing but a mass of ancient ruins, high fragments of shattered wall, a crumbling tower, and great windows through which the clouds were visible.  Inhabited Squillace lay, no doubt, behind.  I knew that it was a very small place, without any present importance; but at all events there was an albergo, and the mere name of albergo had a delightful sound of welcome after such a journey.  Here I would stay for the night, at all events; if the weather cleared, I might be glad to remain for two or three days.  Certainly the rain was stopping; the wind no longer howled.  Up we went towards those ragged walls and great, vacant windows.  We reached the summit; for two minutes the horses trotted; then a sudden halt, and my lad’s face at the carriage door.

“Ecco l’albergo, Signore!”

I jumped out.  We were at the entrance to an unpaved street of squalid hovels, a street which the rain had converted into a muddy river, so that, on quitting the vehicle, I stepped into running water up to my ankles.  Before me was a long low cabin, with a row of four or five windows and no upper storey; a miserable hut of rubble and plaster, stained with ancient dirt and, at this moment, looking soaked with moisture.  Above the doorway I read “Osteria Centrale”; on the bare end of the house was the prouder inscription, “Albergo Nazionale”—­the National Hotel.  I am sorry to say that at the time this touch of humour made no appeal to me; my position was no laughing matter.  Faint with hunger, I saw at once that I should have to browse on fearsome food.  I saw, too, that there was scarce a possibility of passing the night in this place; I must drive down to the sea-shore, and take my chance of a train which would bring me at some time to Reggio.  While I thus reflected—­the water rushing over my boots—­a very ill-looking man came forth and began to stare curiously at me.  I met his eye, but he offered no greeting.  A woman joined him, and the two, quite passive, waited to discover my intentions.