the smaller hills round Avellino—­when the peaks of the Apennines seem to catch fire from the flaming clouds, and below them, the valleys are full of those tender purple and gray shadows that one sees on the canvases of Salvator Rosa, while the town itself looks like a bronzed carving on an old shield, outlined clearly against the dazzling luster of the sky.  To this retired spot I came—­glad to rest for a time from my work of vengeance—­glad to lay down my burden of bitterness for a brief space, and become, as it were, human again, in the sight of the near mountains.  For within their close proximity, things common, things mean seem to slip from the soul—­a sort of largeness pervades the thoughts, the cramping prosiness of daily life has no room to assert its sway—­a grand hush falls on the stormy waters of passion, and like a chidden babe the strong man stands, dwarfed to an infinite littleness in his own sight, before those majestic monarchs of the landscape whose large brows are crowned with the blue circlet of heaven.

I took up my abode in a quiet, almost humble lodging, living simply, and attended only by Vincenzo.  I was tired of the ostentation I had been forced to practice in Naples in order to attain my ends—­and it was a relief to me to be for a time as though I were a poor man.  The house in which I found rooms that suited me was a ramblingly built, picturesque little place, situated on the outskirts of the town, and the woman who owned it, was, in her way, a character.  She was a Roman, she told me, with pride flashing in her black eyes—­I could guess that at once by her strongly marked features, her magnificently molded figure, and her free, firm tread—­that step which is swift without being hasty, which is the manner born of Rome.  She told me her history in a few words, with such eloquent gestures that she seemed to live through it again as she spoke:  her husband had been a worker in a marble quarry—­one of his fellows had let a huge piece of the rock fall on him, and he was crushed to death.

“And well do I know,” she said, “that he killed my Toni purposely, for he would have loved me had he dared.  But I am a common woman, see you—­and it seems to me one cannot lie.  And when my love’s poor body was scarce covered in the earth, that miserable one—­the murderer—­came to me—­he offered marriage.  I accused him of his crime—­he denied it—­he said the rock slipped from his hands, he knew not how.  I struck him on the mouth, and bade him leave my sight and take my curse with him!  He is dead now—­and surely if the saints have heard me, his soul is not in heaven!”

Thus she spoke with flashing eyes and purposeful energy, while with her strong brown arms she threw open the wide casement of the sitting-room I had taken, and bade me view her orchard.  It was a fresh green strip of verdure and foliage—­about eight acres of good land, planted entirely with apple-trees.