"Everything here seems centuries behind northern Italy, in the march of civilization," I observed to my friend and cicerone.
"Truly we have got amongst fauns and satyrs here," replied Castelermo, as he drank from a pitcher of cold water with no very satisfied air. "Basta! was the Arcadia of Virgil like this? Hark you, Signor Menalcas (if that be your name), does not the villa Belcastro lie somewhere near these wild mountains?'
"Yes, illustrissimo," replied the poor rustic, quite abashed by the hauteur of the Maltese knight; "about a league beyond the Tacina, among the wooded hills."
"Good! I hope we shall procure better quarters and entertainment than this poor den can afford."
"I have been often plundered by the French marauders, signor," said the goat-herd humbly.
"And this villa Belcastro: do you know the way to it?"
"Yes, Signor Cavaliere; but a thousand golden ducats would not bribe me to be your guide thither!"
"Why so, fool?"
"My shoulders ache at the recollection of the scurlada. The Cavaliere di Belcastro——"
"Has a very bad name in the neighbourhood. Ah! I heard that even at Palermo. And so, Signor Sylvanus——"