Eat I must, so I stepped forward and asked if I could have a meal.  Without stirring, the man gave a sullen assent.  Could I have food at once?  Yes, in a few minutes.  Would they show me—­the dining room?  Man and woman turned upon their heels, and I followed.  The entrance led into a filthy kitchen; out of this I turned to the right, went along a passage upon which opened certain chamber doors, and was conducted into a room at the end—­for the nonce, a dining-room, but at ordinary times a bedroom.  Evidently the kitchen served for native guests; as a foreigner I was treated with more ceremony.  Left alone till my meal should be ready, I examined the surroundings.  The floor was of worn stone, which looked to me like the natural foundation of the house; the walls were rudely plastered, cracked, grimed, and with many a deep chink; as for the window, it admitted light, but, owing to the aged dirt which had gathered upon it, refused any view of things without save in two or three places where the glass was broken; by these apertures, and at every point of the framework, entered a sharp wind.  In one corner stood an iron bedstead, with mattress and bedding in a great roll upon it; a shaky deal table and primitive chair completed the furniture.  Ornament did not wholly lack; round the walls hung a number of those coloured political caricatures (several indecent) which are published by some Italian newspapers, and a large advertisement of a line of emigrant ships between Naples and New York.  Moreover, there was suspended in a corner a large wooden crucifix, very quaint, very hideous, and black with grime.

Spite of all this, I still debated with myself whether to engage the room for the night.  I should have liked to stay; the thought of a sunny morning here on the height strongly allured me, and it seemed a shame to confess myself beaten by an Italian inn.  On the other hand, the look of the people did not please me; they had surly, forbidding faces.  I glanced at the door—­no lock.  Fears, no doubt, were ridiculous; yet I felt ill at ease.  I would decide after seeing the sort of fare that was set before me.

The meal came with no delay.  First, a dish of great peperoni cut up in oil.  This gorgeous fruit is never much to my taste, but I had as yet eaten no such peperoni as those of Squillace; an hour or two afterwards my mouth was still burning from the heat of a few morsels to which I was constrained by hunger.  Next appeared a dish for which I had covenanted—­the only food, indeed, which the people had been able to offer at short notice—­a stew of pork and potatoes.  Pork (maiale) is the staple meat of all this region; viewing it as Homeric diet, I had often battened upon such flesh with moderate satisfaction.  But the pork of Squillace defeated me; it smelt abominably, and it was tough as leather.  No eggs were to be had no macaroni; cheese, yes—­the familiar cacci cavallo Bread appeared in the form of a fiat circular cake,