respect their ears, and would rather not have
their heads sent to them in a paper parcel, while
their bodies feed the wolves on the mountains.
But round the fires at night—then Salvator Rosa
lives again, and the brigand of the drama and
the studio is in some sense realised. Swarthy
men lying in every attitude round the blazing
pile, their guns in their hands, their dark faces
gleaming in the light, while hooded sentinels
watch silently under the shadow of the rocks
and through the long vista of the darkened
trees, overhead the sky glittering with stars,
and the old mountain echoes ringing to the
sound of song and laughter; seen, just as a
picture, the thing is well enough, and full
of admirable material for artists and the like;
but that is all. Any group of men, from soldiers
to settlers, bivouacking in the open air, affords
the same combination of light and line; and one
need not go to melodramatic thieves even for
studies after Salvator Rosa.

The dresses of the two bands, Manzo's
and Pepino Cerino's, were sensible and wise-
like enough, and with far more simplicity
and less finery than is the current notion of a
brigand's wardrobe. Manzo's men had long
jackets, of stout brown cloth the colour of
withered leaves, with a most useful and generous
arrangement of pockets: one pocket especially
in the back being not unlike a pantomime
clown's. Mr. Moens has seen a pair of trousers,
two shirts, three or four pounds of bread, a bit
of dirty bacon, cheese, and other things, brought
out thence, one by one, when a search was
made for any missing article; in fact, it is the sac,
or hand-bag of modern days sewed inside the
coat, and not carried outside. The waistcoats, of
dark blue cloth, were buttoned at the side, but
had showy gilt buttons down the centre, and
they, too, had an arrangement of pockets of
great use; for in the lower were kept spare
cartridges, balls, gunpowder, knives, &c., while
above went the watch in one, and percussion
caps in the other. The trousers were of dark blue
cloth like the waistcoat, and were cut like
other men's trousers. Cerino's band were in
dark blue coats and trousers, with bright green
waistcoats adorned with small silver buttons;
and they all had belts for cartridges, &c., and all
had hoods attached by a button to their jackets,
which, however, were often lost in the woods,
and always at a premium when retained. They
had wide-awakes; and one which Manzo gave to
Mr. Moens as being rather more sightly than
his own, had inside it the label of Christy of
Gracechurch-street, who happened to be the
Englishman's own-hatter when at home.

But the blessing of blessings to the brigands
in the way of clothing, is the capote, the large-
hooded cloak worn in Italy by peasants, and
familiar to all who have travelled on the
Continent, as a general article of dress everywhere,
with certain slight modifications of cut. Manzo
gave Mr. Moens one of these capotes, but as
time went on, and these and other things became
scarcer, he had to share it at night with Pavone,
one of the band, who had a habit of snoring, and
who was not quite as fragrant as a bottle of eau-
de-Cologne. When the poor captive was ill, as
he was once—so ill that he thought they would
have "to dig a shallow hole to put his body in,"
he gave Pavone an uncomfortable night by
"hitting him to stop his snoring, rolling myself
round, and so dragging the covering from him,
and groaning from the pain I suffered; but I must
say for all that he was most forbearing." This
bad fit of illness (diarrhœa) was cured by some
cheese made of cow's milk. Lorenzo, another
brigand, cured himself of fever by drinking a
good-sized bottle of castor oil at one pull, and
about ninety times as much quinine as would
lie on a franc. This somewhat heroic remedy
cut down in a day, a fever which had lasted a
fortnight.

One of the causes which lengthened the captivity
of Mr. Moens, was the belief of the brigands
that he was a highly influential personage,
related to Lord Palmerston, and of such importance
that the Italian government would pay his
ransom, whatever the amount asked. Wherefore,
they fixed it originally at a hundred thousand
ducats for himself and Mr. Aynsley, equal to
seventeen thousand pounds; then after a few
minutes' conversation with Sentonio, "a tall
clumsy ruffian with black eyes, hair, and beard,"
it was reduced to half, namely, fifty thousand
ducats; but finally they accepted thirty thousand,
which was a considerable reduction from
the first demand. Many and great were the
difficulties, not about raising the sum, but
about transmitting it. The laws against
paying ransom to the brigands, or trafficking with
them in any way, are very severe; and as
the capture of an English milord, a relation of
Lord Palmerston, and the friend of the Italian
government, had created immense excitement,
the whole country was scoured by soldiery, to
the imminent risk of the poor captive's life,
when they came to shots with the brigands.
For, as he says, they always seemed to take
special aim at him, as he was the tallest of the
party; and he was thus in even more than equal,
danger with the rest, of a bullet through the
heart. Their activity added to the prolongation
of his captivity; for the brigands would not
let him go without the money, and the money
could not be brought up to the band; and so
the whole thing was a game at cross-purposes
and checked intentions, and an immense amount
of suffering, mental and physical.

It was a tremendous moment for both Mr.
Moens and his then fellow-captive, Mr. Aynsley,
when they drew lots as to which should be set
free to go and raise the ransom. Mr. Moens
held the pieces of wood which were to decide
the lots, and Mr. Aynsley drew. When he
drew the fortunate longer one of the two, "I
must confess I felt as if I had been drawing for
my life and I had lost," says Mr. Moens. A
minute afterwards, the report of a gun—the bullet
whizzing over the prisoner's head—told the band
that the soldiers were upon them. Mr. Aynsley
had met them, almost immediately after leaving
the brigands, and they started in hot pursuit.
No good was done; no good ever was done by
the soldiers; only poor Mr. Moens slipped and