In a short time I perceived a light twinkling through the gloom, and could discern a little bay or harbour, where three small craft lay at anchor close under the lee of the high land. A narrow path brought me to a neat little cottage, over the low roof of which the vines clambered, mingling with the orange trees, which raised their rich foliage and golden fruit above the sea-beat promontory. The wind was increasing, the clouds began to whirl and break, the rain to descend, and a single star, red, bright, and fiery, sparkling on the dark and distant horizon, was lost at times, as the billows of the Ionian main tumbled and rolled between it and me. Gladly I knocked at the cottage door; and after a long delay an aged domestic appeared at a loop or slit, through which the rays of her lamp shot forth, radiating into the gloom: she seemed unable to understand and unwilling to admit me.
"Open the door," said a man's voice, "should it be a robber, what have we to fear? I never harmed the brigands, and they dare not to meddle with me."
I expected, from this defying and confident tone, to behold some very ferocious personage when the door was opened; and was, therefore, agreeably surprised on being welcomed by a reverend old man, with silver hairs, and a most patriarchal beard flowing from a pleasing and benevolent countenance. It was my old friend the Basilian priest of Squillaci; and we immediately recognised each other. On my apologizing for disturbing him at an hour so unreasonable, he replied,——
"Say no more, signor; I am the priest of this district, and my door is open to all: from the great lord to the poor lazzarone, all are equally welcome here. But thrice welcome the soldier; for, though now but a poor padre, I have borne arms in my youth, and fought in the wars of Charles of Parma; and I love the sight of a soldier for the sake of the thoughts of other years."
In the snug room of the Basilian, with my feet on the fire-pan of charcoal, I partook of a slight supper, and related the seizure of the galley and the destruction of her officers and crew: a tale which filled the gentle old Greek with horror. I then recurred to the urgent nature of my despatches, and the dilemma in which I found myself in consequence of being stripped of everything requisite to enable me to pursue my journey.
"Keep yourself easy, signor," said my host; "a little craft, bound northward, put into the harbour below, a few hours after sunset, to repair some damage sustained at sea; and I have no doubt her master will, at my request, be happy to land you at Crotona."
I was well pleased to hear this. After a little more conversation, the Basilian retired; and I slept till sunrise upon his sofa, with my cloak over me.
The skipper of whom he had spoken came to breakfast with us, and I discovered he had charge of the scampavia which had suffered from the Sea-Horse's forecastle-gun. Her starboard bulwark and part of her mainmast had been so much injured, that he had run into the little cove for the double purpose of repairing the damage and waiting till the threatened squall blew past.
Maestro Maltei was, as his name imports, a thorough Maltese, quick-sighted, polite, and intelligent. His features displayed all the national peculiarities of his race; the black, shining Arabian eyes, thick lips, and swarthy visage. He was a stout man, upwards of thirty, and clad in a yellow cotton shirt, embroidered on the breast and sleeves; over it he wore an ample vest of red velvet, adorned with innumerable little silver buttons; a long silk scarf encircled his waist, and retained his sheathed knife; and on his head he wore a long tri-coloured woollen cap, which hung down his back below the waistband of his white cotton breeches. He had rings in his ears, and a rosary round his neck: altogether Maestro Maltei, though he had much of the pirate in his aspect, was, in reality, as smart a nautical dandy as one could see in these days lounging about the galley-arches at Malta.
After breakfast, he returned on board, promising to send for me when ready to put to sea. Anxious to proceed, I watched from the windows of the priest's house the operations of the carpenter busy at work; though the weather was lowering, and torrents of rain fell at intervals during the day, which dragged on slowly. I soon became heartily tired of the Basilian; who bored me, for six consecutive hours, with an essay he was writing on the lives of two eminent ancients: Quintius Ennius, a Calabrian, the friend of Scipio and Lælius, author of eighteen books of metrical annals, and tragedies, epigrams, and satires innumerable; and Aurelius Cassiodorus, a Roman patrician and minister of Theodric, who founded a great monastery near Squillaci, where he wrote a history of the Goths.