As the boy led on, George followed him in a foot path, which led through fields of meadow land, corn, and rye.
The fire-flies--mimic meteors--were giddily winging their way from bush to bush,--illuming the atmosphere, and imparting to the scene a glittering beauty, which a summer night in a northern clime cannot boast.
As they approached somewhat nearer to the hamlet, their course was over ground more rugged; and the disjointed fragments of rocks strewed, and at intervals obstructed, the path.
The cottages were soon reached.
The villagers were all in front of their dwellings, taking their last meal for the day, in the open air.
The young guide stopped in front of a cottage, a little apart from the rest. The family party were seated round a rude table, on which were plates and napkins.
Before the master of the house--a wrinkled old man, with long grey hair--was a smoking tureen of bread soup, over which he was in the act of sprinkling some grated Parmesan cheese.
A plate of green figs, and a large water melon--the cocomero--made up the repast.
"Giuseppe! you are late for supper," said the old patriarch, as the boy approached to whisper his introduction of the stranger.
The old man waved his hand courteously--made a short apology for the humble viands--and pointed to a vacant seat.