nage of great
importance and able to declare war at a moment's notice. The cabman, the
magistrate, the guarde and the interpreter put their heads together and
chattered voluble Italian--all speaking at once in excited tones--while
Uncle John continued to warn them at the top of his lungs that their
country was doomed to sudden annihilation and they were the culprits
responsible for the coming calamity.

As a result they bundled the irate American into the carriage again and
drove him poste haste back to the museum, where they deposited him upon
the steps. Then in a flash the guarde and the cabman disappeared from
sight and were seen no more.

The victor smiled proudly as his nieces rushed toward him.

"Did you have to pay another lira, Uncle?" asked Patsy, anxiously.

"Not on your life, my dear," mopping his brow vigorously. "They're a lot
of cutthroats and assassins--policemen, magistrates and all--but when
the eagle screams they're wise enough to duck."

The girls laughed.

"And did the eagle scream, then?" Patsy enquired.

"Just a little, my dear; but if it whispered it would sound mighty loud
in this mummified old world. But we've lost enough time for one day.
Come; let's go see 'Narcissus' and the 'Dancing Faun.'"

CHAPTER XII

MOVING ON

"Here's a letter from my dear old friend Silas Watson," said Uncle John,
delightedly. "It's from Palermo, where he has been staying with his
ward--and your friend, girls--Kenneth Forbes, and he wants me to lug you
all over to Sicily at once."

"That's jolly," said Patsy, with a bright smile. "I'd like to see
Kenneth again."

"I suppose he is a great artist, by this time," said Beth, musingly.

"How singular!" exclaimed Louise. "Count Ferralti told me only this
morning that he had decided to go to Palermo."

"Really?" said Uncle John.

"Yes, Uncle. Isn't it a coincidence?"

"Why, as for that," he answered, slowly, "I'm afraid it will prevent our
seeing the dear count--or whatever he is--again, at least for some
time. For Mr. Watson and Kenneth are just leaving Palermo, and he asks
us to meet him in another place altogether, a town called--called--let
me see; Tormenti, or Terminal, or something."

"Give me the letter, dear," said Patsy. "I don't believe it's Terminal
at all. Of course not," consulting the pages, "it's Taormina."

"Is that in Sicily?" he asked.

"Yes. Listen to what Mr. Watson says: 'I'm told it is the most beautiful
spot in the world