I spent most of my fourth day in Florence looking at her works of art. Late that afternoon I decided not to return to my lodging, and wandered off along the highway to Rome. The country was still mountainous, but the ranges were not so steep and there were more huts than to the north. When night settled down, I could see before me a country inn on a hilltop.
I wandered on, reached the inn, went inside, and sat down. At first the groups of men seated before the fireplace and around the table scarcely looked my way. When I began to speak, however, they turned to stare, and began nodding and glancing at one another as if they said:
“Now where do you suppose he comes from?”
I did not offer to tell them, though they squirmed with curiosity. Finally one of them, clearing his throat, hinted timidly:
“Hem, ah—you are a German, perhaps?”
“No.”
The speaker rubbed his neck with a horny hand and turned awkwardly to look at his fellows.
“Hah, you are an Austrian!” charged another, with a scowl.
“No.”
“Swiss?” suggested a third.