To go back a little. We left the potter retiring to rest full of a determination to proceed to Rome. He arose next morning with a mind unchanged, and soon after dawn took his way to the cliffs. As he was about to set his foot to descend the steps which led down to the Marina, the head of an ascending individual showed up above the level. He was a short, thick-set man, with a mahogany complexion, shaggy beard and moustache. Each made an exclamation and then shook hands.
‘I was coming with no other reason than to seek tidings of you, Silo.’
‘Good!—here I am myself, Masthlion.’
‘I thought it about your time. Are you for the Tiber?’
‘Direct.’
‘When?’
‘At noon, or before. I don’t want to lose this wind,’ said the sailor, casting his eye to the eastward.
‘I have business in Rome—give me a passage.’
‘In Rome! You? What has bitten you? Come, and welcome.’
‘I will come about noon then.’