undecided as to whether I should fling away the
scrap of paper, or keep it as a curiosity. I took
a middle course, for I thrust it carelessly into my
pocket, and sauntered away up the hill. It was
getting very dark, but the moon was half full,
and threw light enough on the less thickly
wooded parts of the landscape to save me from
stumbling. There was no trace of the sunset
glories left in the darkling sky to westward. It
was black night among the cactus shrubs and
rustling bushes that fringed the rocks on my
right and left hand. Only a pale yellow streak
of light fell between the boughs of the stone-
pines, and showed the water-worn pebbles and
red sand at my feet.

"Faccia a terra!" called out a deep voice from
the thickets overhead; and then followed the
sharp click of a gunlock. I stopped, and looked
quickly in the direction of the invisible speaker.
Again came the same harsh summons, spoken in
the vilest Calabrian patois, but quite intelligible.
"Face—to—the—ground, English fool! Beppo,
Niccolo, let him see the carbines."

Instantly the branches crashed, and through the
evergreen foliage were thrust the gleaming barrels
of several guns, while the order to lie down and
press my face to the earth was gruffly renewed.
I had been half incredulous at first, half inclined
to suspect a trick or a delusion of the senses,
but now I doubted no longer. I was in presence
of the brigands, and, as I realised the truth, a
quick tingling sensation ran like fire through my
blood, and I scarcely knew whether the thrill
were one of pain or pleasure. Then came a
heavy body crushing and tearing through the
boughs and matted creepers, in headlong descent
of the bank. I attempted to fly, but, overtaken,
turned desperately round on the pursuer,
wrenching the carbine out of his hand, and
hurling him, with a force that surprised myself,
upon a heap of stones and twisted olive roots.
But two stout fellows were close on the heels
of the first, and they threw themselves upon
me, grappling me with a tenacious hug that
could not be shaken off, while a fourth came
up in a more leisurely way, and, pressing the
muzzle of his piece to my forehead, ordered me
to leave off struggling, on pain of instant death.

I submitted, and in an incredibly short space
of time my arms were tied behind me with a cord,
my watch, purse, pocket-book, sketch-book,
and pencil-case, were transferred to the care of
my captors, and I was in full march towards the
mountains.

So long as our course lay through a cultivated
district, my lawless guides either kept silence
altogether, or only spoke in growling tones, and
as curtly as possible. But when the olive terraces
and walnut groves had disappeared, and the
walled vineyards and fenced fields had given
place to bare rocks and thorny shrubs, the spirits
of the robbers rose in proportion to their remoteness
from civilisation. When we were quite in
the uncultivated country, the two younger of
the brigands began to whistle and sing scraps
of operatic airs that from La Scala had found
their way into the hills.

It was quite in vain that I protested against
my captivity, assuring the elder and graver of
the four that I was a most unprofitable prize, if,
indeed, I had not, as seemed probable, been
taken by mistake for another; that I was a poor
artist, with hardly a scudo beyond the silver
coins they had found in my pocket, and that no
one was able or willing to pay ransom for a
lonely stranger like myself. The only answer I
got to these appeals was a push from the butt-
end of a carbine, coupled with a rough
command to hasten my steps. Presently I had not
much breath to spare for such useless remonstrance,
as I found myself, perforce, scrambling
up steep and stony gullies that were probably
the mere beds of dried-up torrents, dragging
myself painfully over rocks in whose fissures grew
the mountain thistle and the stunted cactus.

Breathless, spent, and with bruised and bleeding
feet, my light boots proving a poor protection
against the sharp stones over which I
had for hours been forced to stumble as best I
might, I sank down on a fragment of rock, and
declared my inability to go further. The bandits
threatened me, struck me; but in vain. I could
do no more. One of them at last drew a gourd
from his pocket, uncorked it, and held it to my
lips.

"Drink!" he said, impatiently; "there is but
a mile to travel. Drink! San Gennaro blight you
—do you fancy the good liquor poison?" The
coarse and fiery brandy revived me; but it was
not without a great deal of hustling, supporting,
and pushing on the part of my conductors that I
contrived to stagger on, until we entered a narrow
glen between steep peaks, and suddenly turning a
corner came upon a small plain, in which a strange
scene awaited me. A number of ruddy watch-fires,
perhaps twenty, were burning with red and
smoky light, and around these reclined, sat, or
moved in a variety of more or less active
employments, groups of dark forms, most, but not all,
of whom wore the pointed Calabrian hat so familiar
to playgoers. Here and there the glare was
reflected from the barrels of guns which the
owners were cleaning or examining by the firelight,
and before several of the fires cooking
operations were going on, and whole kids, hares,
or great pieces of half raw meat, were being
slowly turned as they dangled on a string in
front of the blaze. From one group, larger than
the rest, came the notes of a guitar, and of a
deep voice singing some bravura song, such as
the Italians of the lower class pick up like parrots
from their occasional visits to a theatre. And
as the song came to a close, I distinctly heard
the shrill voices and laughter of women mingling
with the mirth and applause of the men. This,
however, surprised me little, for I had heard that
the brigands kept on friendly terms with the
villagers, whose relations they frequently were,
and that the wives, sisters, and mothers of members
of the band were constantly visiting their