The three artists started, carrying their sketching kits, wearing their red berrettas (flat red caps, something like Tam o’ Shanters). They took the precaution to tuck their soft felt hats inside their waistcoats, and, leaving the rest of their traps to be sent after them, set out merrily on their sixteen-mile tramp to Tivoli. The road was most beguiling; it leads through Vicovaro along the river Anio—down which floated the mother of Romulus with her immortal twins—past “Cold Digentia,” where the winter birding nets were set on Horace’s Sabine farm. Is it wonderful that they loitered? that they even delayed to make un leggero bozzetto (just a note) of a small gray castello perched like an eagle’s nest on the top of a high hill? A white path zigzagged up to the gate, an olive-grove clustered at the foot of the hill, a row of stone pines ran along the sky line. The mere “bozzetti” grew into serious sketches. All at once they saw outlined against the sky a long procession of peasants coming back from their work in the fields below. The women—riding in pairs upon the patient mules and asses, hung with bells that jingled at every step—were singing the litany, the men made the responses in their gruff voices.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena.”
“Ora pro nobis!” then came the guttural “angk, angk!” of the men, and the blows of their heavy sticks upon the backs of the poor beasts.
“They are singing the Ave Maria, which means that it must be late,” said the eldest of the three artists, the Spaniard, Catherez. “We must be going.”
It was nearly sunset, and they were not half way to Tivoli. They exchanged their berrettas for their felt hats, and began to walk in good earnest. Soon after dark they met a band of carabinieri, who brought them to a halt.
“Where do you come from?”
“Saracinesco.”
“That is so likely! From what inn?”
“It should be known to you that there is no inn there where one may sleep. We stayed at the house of Belisario.”
“Where are you going?”