There is no doubt, fortunately, as to the position of the religious house founded by Cassiodorus; it was in the shadow of Mons Moscius, and quite near to the sea.  I had marked the spot during my drive up the valley, and now saw it again from this far height, but I could not be satisfied with distant views.  Weather and evil quarters making it impossible to remain at Squillace, I decided to drive forthwith to the railway station, see how much time remained to me before the arrival of the train for Reggio, and, if it could be managed, visit in that interval the place that attracted me.

It is my desire to be at peace with all men, and in Italy I have rarely failed to part with casual acquaintances—­even innkeepers and cocchieri—­on friendly terms; but my host of the Albergo Nazionale made it difficult to preserve good humour.  Not only did he charge thrice the reasonable sum for the meal I could not eat, but his bill for my driver’s colazione contained such astonishing items that I had to question the lad as to what he had really consumed.  It proved to be a very ugly case of extortion, and the tone of sullen menace with which my arguments were met did not help to smooth things.  Presently the man hit upon a pleasant sort of compromise.  Why, he asked, did I not pay the bill as it stood, and then, on dismissing my carriage—­he had learnt that I was not returning to Catanzaro—­deduct as much as I chose from the payment of the driver?  A pretty piece of rascality, this, which he would certainly not have suggested but that the driver was a mere boy, helpless himself and bound to render an account to his master.  I had to be content with resolutely striking off half the sum charged for the lad’s wine (he was supposed to have drunk four litres), and sending the receipted bill to Don Pasquale at Catanzaro, that he might be ready with information if any future traveller consulted him about the accommodation to be had at Squillace.  No one is likely to do so for a long time to come, but I have no doubt Don Pasquale had a chuckle of amused indignation over the interesting and very dirty bit of paper.  We drove quickly down the winding road, and from below I again admired the picturesqueness of Squillace.  Both my guide-books, by the way, the orthodox English and German authorities, assert that from the railway station by the sea-shore Squillace is invisible.  Which of the two borrowed this information from the other?  As a matter of fact, the view of mountain and town from the station platform is admirable, though, of course, at so great a distance, only a whitish patch represents the hovels and ruins upon their royal height.

I found that I had a good couple of hours at my disposal, and that to the foot of Mons Moscius (now called Coscia di Stalletti) was only a short walk.  It rained drearily, but by this time I had ceased to think of the weather.  After watching the carriage for a moment, as it rolled away on the long road back to Catanzaro (sorry not to be going with it), I followed the advice of the stationmaster, and set out to walk along the line of rails towards the black, furrowed mountain side.