The houses are neat and comfortable, painted white and whitewashed over the paint, as double precaution against vermin. Each house has a porch and wooden steps. The village is under military control; a kindly control one saw that, as every man, woman, child we met had a smile for the Capitano.
“What is that building?” I asked; we were passing a small house with barred windows.
“Alas! Signora, it is a prison. Discipline is necessary—our men are good fellows but they are human—a firm hand is the kindest in the end.”
We passed through the Via Principessa Mafalda and the Piazza Giovanna, named for the little princesses, to the Piazza Emanuele, the center of the village life. The tiny church stands here, a tall flagpole with the national flag of Italy directly before the door.
“It has cost us more trouble to build this than all the rest,” laughed the Capitano. The chapel contains an altar, a confessional and a cupboard for the vestments, books and mass vessels. There is no room for the congregation; they must stand or sit outside for the service.
“It has been a little hard—during the deluge; that must come to an end; in general, as the Signora has heard, this is a fine climate!”
As a child keeps the biggest plum for the last, my officer had kept the school, the crowning glory of the Villaggio, for the end.
“Opened on the 7th of March, Signora, nearly a month ago, at her Majesty’s desire. She did not wish the children to lose a year’s schooling—they have not lost much time, these little ones, have they?”
School was over, the children scattered; the captain sent a lad for the schoolhouse key.
“Her Majesty sent all the books and