A fresh hubbub outside of the inn announced the arrival of more travellers; and from the variety of voices, or rather clamors, the clattering of horses’ hoofs, the rattling of wheels, and the general uproar both within and without, the arrival seemed to be numerous. It was, in fact, the procaccio, and its convoy—a kind of caravan of merchandise, that sets out on stated days, under an escort of soldiery to protect it from the robbers. Travellers avail themselves of the occasion, and many carriages accompany the procaccio. It was a long time before either landlord or waiter returned, being hurried away by the tempest of new custom. When mine host appeared, there was a smile of triumph on his countenance.—“Perhaps,” said he, as he cleared away the table, “perhaps the signor has not heard of what has happened.”
“What?” said the Englishman, drily.
“Oh, the procaccio has arrived, and has brought accounts of fresh exploits of the robbers, signor.”
“Pish!”
“There’s more news of the English Milor and his family,” said the host, emphatically.
“An English lord.-What English lord?”
“Milor Popkin.”
“Lord Popkin? I never heard of such a title!”
“O Sicuro—a great nobleman that passed through here lately with his Milady and daughters—a magnifico—one of the grand councillors of London—un almanno.”
“Almanno—almanno?—tut! he means alderman.”