“What in the name of all the saints is the matter with that evil horse?”
“Illustrissimo, the animal is like one of yourselves,—he does not like to work,” said the thin little man, a lawyer from Scanno.
“Grazie, grazie (thank you),” said the arch-priest, taking the chaff in good part.
Once we had started, everything went like magic. The drive from Scanno to Anversa is as fine as the Cornice or the Sorrento drives. It is mostly down hill, and took us just three hours; the return trip takes five. I had been almost afraid to sit outside lest, after our sleepless night, I should go to sleep and fall off, but the great gray mountains and the grim gray gorges kept me awake. The road runs nearly all the way beside the river Saggittario, which has more moods than one would have imagined possible in a single thread of water. Sometimes it dashes, white and angry, over a rough bottom between rocky sides; then it spreads out into clear pools, “alive with trout,” the lawyer said. Sometimes it is green and full of fight, sometimes brown, still, and lazy. We saw an eagle light on a crag far over our heads. We were really dazed with the wonders we had seen by the time we reached Anversa, where we took the train. We had to go all around Robin Hood’s barn, so that we did not get home to Roccaraso till after dark.
On our way from the station we were overtaken by Mariuccia, who was eager to hear how we had fared.
“Aimé, ’Gnor’, when I saw Fra Diavolo return with the animals and without your illustrious selves I was much afflicted! The inhabitants of Scanno sono gente mal educata, e di nessuna fede (people without breeding or good faith). The sindaco himself was much alarmed, good man; I must take the news to his house that you have returned safely.”
“What is that you are carrying on your head, Mariuccia?”
“’Gnora, it is a little chest.” It was the most fascinating little cinque cento chest I ever saw, half the usual size, finely carved, and looking as if it might be meant to hold jewels or treasure, as indeed it was.
“To whom does it belong? Where are you taking it?” I touched it with my bare hand: it was encrusted with earth.
“It belongs to one who is forgotten. I am taking it to the house next yours. It is for una povera creatura morta (a poor dead child). The mother will give the cassetta a thorough cleaning, and it will be as good as when it was first put in the ground.”