in a flow of gossip about things local.  We entered a narrow opening, some twelve feet high, which ran perhaps twenty yards into the cliff.  Lenormant supposes that this was a quarry made by the original Greek colonists.  If Cassiodorus used it for the purpose mentioned, the cave must have been in direct communication either with the sea or the river; at present, many yards of sloping shingle divide it from the line of surf, and the river flows far away.  Movement of the shore there has of course been, and the Pellena may have considerably changed the direction of its outflow; our author’s description being but vague, one can only muse on probabilities and likelihoods.

Whilst we talked, the entrance to the cave was shadowed, and there entered one of the men who had turned back half-way; his face betrayed the curiosity which had after all prevailed to bring him hither.  Shouting merrily, my companion hailed him as “Brigadiere.”  The two friends contrasted very amusingly; for the brigadiere was a mild, timid, simple creature, who spoke with diffidence; he kept his foolishly good-natured eyes fixed upon me, a gaze of wonder.  After listening to all that my guide had to say—­it was nothing to the point, dealing chiefly with questions of railway engineering—­I had just begun to explain my interest in the locality, and I mentioned the name of Cassiodorus.  As it passed my lips the jovial fellow burst into a roar of laughter.  “Cassiodorio!  Ha, ha!  Cassiodorio!  Ha, ha, ha!” I asked him what he meant, and found that he was merely delighted to hear a stranger unexpectedly utter a name in familiar local use.  He ran out from the cave, and pointed up the valley; yonder was a fountain which bore the name “Fontana di Cassiodorio.” (From my authors I knew of this; it may or may not have genuine historic interest.) Thereupon, I tried to discover whether any traditions hung to the name, but these informants had only a vague idea that Cassiodorus was a man of times long gone by.  How, they questioned in turn, did I know anything about him?  Why, from books, I replied; among them books which the ancient himself had written more than a thousand years ago.  This was too much for the brigadiere; it moved him to stammered astonishment.  Did I mean to say that books written more than a thousand years ago still existed?  The jovial friend, good-naturedly scornful, cried out that of course they did, and added with triumphant air that they were not in the language of to-day but in latino, latino!  All this came as a revelation to the other, who stared and marvelled, never taking his eyes from my face.  At length he burst out with an emphatic question; these same books, were they large?  Why yes, I answered, some of them.  Were they—­were they as large as a missal?  A shout of jolly laughter interrupted us.  It seemed to me that my erudite companion was in the habit of getting fun of out his friend the brigadiere, but so kindly did he look and speak, that it must have been difficult for the simpleton ever to take offence.