ed,
quadrupled, when at last we saw the great brown sombre walls of a
city tower above us. Then we entered one of those narrow lofty
Tuscan gates, and rolled upon the pavement of a street.

The inn at Montepulciano is called Marzocco, after the Florentine
lion which stands upon its column in a little square before the
house. The people there are hospitable, and more than once on
subsequent occasions have they extended to us kindly welcome. But on
this, our first appearance, they had scanty room at their disposal.
Seeing us arrive so late, and march into their dining-room, laden
with sealskins, waterproofs, and ulsters, one of the party hugging a
complete Euripides in Didot's huge edition, they were confounded. At
last they conducted the whole company of four into a narrow back
bedroom, where they pointed to one fair-sized and one very little
bed. This was the only room at liberty, they said; and could we not
arrange to sleep here? _S' accomodi, Signore! S' accomodi, Signora!_
These encouraging words, uttered in various tones of cheerful and
insinuating politeness to each member of the party in succession,
failed to make us comprehend how a gentleman and his wife, with a
lean but rather lengthy English friend, and a bulky native of the
Grisons, could 'accommodate themselves' collectively and undividedly
with what was barely sufficient for their just moiety, however much
it might afford a night's rest to their worse half. Christian was
sent out into the storm to look for supplementary rooms in
Montepulciano, which he failed to get. Meanwhile we ordered supper,
and had the satisfaction of seeing set upon the board a huge red
flask of _vino nobile_. In copious draughts of this the King of
Tuscan wines, we drowned our cares; and when the cloth was drawn,
our friend and Christian passed their night upon the supper table.
The good folk of the inn had recovered from their surprise, and from
the inner recesses of their house had brought forth mattresses and
blankets. So the better and larger half of the company enjoyed sound
sleep.

It rained itself out at night, and the morning was clear, with the
transparent atmosphere of storm-clouds hurrying in broken squadrons
from the bad sea quarter. Yet this is just the weather in which
Tuscan landscape looks its loveliest. Those immense expanses of grey
undulating uplands need the luminousness of watery sunshine, the
colour added by cloud-shadows, and the pearly softness of rising
v