“Better than statistical facts!” said another.
Glancing in the direction of Rome, we were the witnesses of an extraordinary atmospheric phenomenon. The city, a dozen miles away, was lifted from the plain and floating upon a low-lying band of radiant mist. The dome of St. Peter’s actually appeared to sway and tremble as a balloon strains at its cords. The roofs were silver; the pinnacles aërial towers. Thus the background, while between it and our mountain, the Campagna was a gulf black as death with the shadow of a thundercloud that had come we know not from what quarter. It was not there five minutes ago. We had barely time to exclaim over the marvel of contrasted light and gloom, when the cloud dropped like monstrous bat-wings upon the valley, flew faster than did ever bird of day or night toward us. There was not a roof in Tusculum. The guides brought up the horses in haste, and three of us were in the saddle by the time the first big drops dashed in our faces.
“Ride!” ejaculated the fourth, in response to the supplicating pantomime of the leader of the unmartingaled beast. “On that thing!”
Tusculum rain had not extinguished his sense of injury, and this was insult. There was but one umbrella amongst us, and this was forced upon me. Caput threw my bridle over his arm and walked at my tall horse’s head, calmly regardless of the drenching storm. Dr. V—— and his four-footed adjunct jogged placidly at the head of the line. Next rode Prima, humming softly to herself, while cascades poured from her hat-brim upon her shoulders, and her soaked dress distilled green tears upon the sides of her white horse. We followed, I very high, and selfishly dry. The guides, to whose outer men the plentiful washing was an improvement, straggled along in the rear, leading the recalcitrant horse. It was a forlorn-looking, but perfectly good-humored procession. There was little danger of taking cold from summer rain in this warm air. However this might be, to fret would be childish, to rebel foolishly useless. Caput uttered the only protest against the proceedings of the day, and that not until we left our horses in the piazza in front of the cathedral, and waited in the sunshine succeeding the shower, while the guides were paid.
“I don’t mind the walk up and down the mountain,” beating the wet from his hat, and wiping the drops from his face. “Nor the wetting very much, although my boots are ruined. I do grudge giving ten francs for the privilege of seeing that brigand lead his villanous horse three miles!”
But he paid the bill.
CHAPTER XX.
From Pompeii to Lake Avernus.
