He stopped to laugh, his yellowish face wrinkling into little folds as he did so.
“The first husband was Turlendana, a sailor on board the ships of the King of Naples, sailing from India to France, to Spain, and even as far as America. He was lost at sea, no one knows where, for the ship disappeared and nothing has ever been heard from it since. That was about thirty years ago. Turlendana had the strength of Samson; he could pull up an anchor with one finger ... poor fellow! He who goes to sea is apt to have such an end.”
Turlendana was listening quietly.
“The second husband, whom she married after five years of widowhood, was from Ortona, a son of Ferrante, a damned soul, who was in conspiracy with smugglers in Napoleon’s time, during the war with England. They smuggled goods from Francavilla up to Silvi and Montesilvano—sugar and coffee from the English boats. In the neighbourhood of Silvi was a tower called ‘The Tower of Saracini,’ from which the signals were given. As the patrol passed, ‘Plon, plon, plon, plon!’ came out from behind the trees....” Binchi-Banche’s face lighted up at the recollection of those times, and he quite lost himself in the pleasure of describing minutely all those clandestine operations, his expressive gestures and exclamations adding interest to the tale.
His small body would draw up and stretch out to its full height as he proceeded.
“At last the son of Ferrante was, while walking along the coast one night, shot in the back by a soldier of Murat, and killed.
“The third husband was Titino Passacantando, who died in his bed of a pernicious disease.
“The fourth still lives, and is called Verdura, a good fellow who does not adulterate the wine of the inn. Now, you will have a chance to try some.”
When they reached the much praised inn, they separated.
“Good night, sir!”