Meanwhile the sullen sky had grown blacker, and rain was descending heavily.  In any case, I should barely have had time to go further, and had to be content with a description from my companions of a larger cave some distance beyond this, which is known as the Grotta of San Gregorio—­with reference, no doubt, to S. Gregory the Thaumaturgist; to him was dedicated a Greek monastery, built on the ruined site of Vivariense.  After the Byzantine conquest of the sixth century, Magna Graecia once more justified its ancient name; the civilization of this region became purely Greek; but for the Lombards and ecclesiastical Rome, perhaps no Latin Italy would have survived.  Greek monks, who through the darkest age were skilful copyists, continued in Calabria the memorable work of Cassiodorus.  The ninth century saw Saracen invasion, and then it was, no doubt, that the second religious house under Mons Moscius perished from its place.

Thinking over this, I walked away from the cave and climbed again to the railway; my friends also were silent and ruminative.  Not unnaturally, I suspected that a desire for substantial thanks had some part in their Silence, and at a convenient spot I made suitable offering.  It was done, I trust, with all decency, for I knew that I had the better kind of Calabrian to deal with; but neither the jovially intelligent man nor the pleasant simpleton would for a moment entertain this suggestion.  They refused with entire dignity —­grave, courteous, firm-and as soon as I had apologized, which I did not without emphasis, we were on the same terms as before; with handshaking, we took kindly leave of each other.  Such self-respect is the rarest thing in Italy south of Rome, but in Calabria I found it more than once.

By when I had walked back to the station, hunger exhausted me.  There was no buffet, and seemingly no place in the neighbourhood where food could be purchased, but on my appealing to the porter I learnt that he was accustomed to entertain stray travellers in his house hard by, whither he at once led me.  To describe the room where my meal was provided would be sheer ingratitude:  in my recollection it compares favourably with the Albergo Nazionale of Squillace.  I had bread, salame, cheese, and, heaven be thanked, wine that I could swallow—­nay, for here sounds the note of thanklessness, it was honest wine, of which I drank freely.  Honest, too, the charge that was made; I should have felt cheap at ten times the price that sudden accession of bodily and mental vigour.  Luck be with him, serviceable facchino of Squillace!  I remember his human face, and his smile of pleasure when I declared all he modestly set before me good and good again.  His hospitality sent me on my way rejoicing—­ glad that I had seen the unspeakable little mountain town, thrice glad that I had looked upon Mons Moscius and trodden by the river Pellena.  Rain fell in torrents, but I no longer cared.  When presently the train arrived, I found a comfortable corner, and looked forward with a restful sigh to the seven hours’ travel which would bring me into view of Sicily.