"With us, signor," said my host, "you are safe, although Massena's soldiers swarm everywhere around us. Here you can remain in disguise until we discover some means of sending you to Calabria."
"You speak my very wishes—I am deeply indebted to you! Upon what part of the coast have I been thrown?"
"Near Canne, in Basilicata, a few miles from the frontier of Upper Calabria."
"I am then in rear of the French lines at Cassano!" said I, aghast at the intelligence. He bowed.
"Follow Catanio; change your attire, and partake of some refreshment—go! afterwards I will speak with you." He had all the air and tone of a man who through life had been accustomed to wield authority.
"Basilicata!" I repeated inwardly, as we retired: it seemed almost incredible that the water-logged wreck, under a jury-foresail, even when aided by wind and tide, could have run so far up the gulf since daybreak. Her sailing must have averaged five knots an hour, since we lost sight of the Capo della Colonna. Catanio, who by his taciturnity and outward trim appeared to be a monk, led me into an ante-room, where he furnished me with dry apparel. I asked him numerous questions concerning my host, but he seemed very unwilling to gratify my curiosity.
"Signor Catanio," said I, while slipping on a pair of black cotton breeches; "I presume he is a man of rank."
"In Italy none is nobler; the vicegerent of God excepted," he replied, energetically.
"You are an Abbruzzese by your accent, I think?" The old fellow smiled sourly, and took a great pinch of snuff.
"I am an honest man," said he, handing his snuff-box to me, and bundling my wet uniform, somewhat contemptuously, into a chest, which he locked.