gossiping and spinning, like Fates. Their yarn must be uncanny.

But we wander. It is difficult to go to any particular place here;
impossible to write of it in a direct manner. Our mulepath continues
most delightful, by slopes of green orchards nestled in sheltered
places, winding round gorges, deep and ragged with loose stones, and
groups of rocks standing on the edge of precipices, like medieval
towers, and through village after village tucked away in the hills.
The abundance of population is a constant surprise. As we proceed, the
people are wilder and much more curious about us, having, it is evident,
seen few strangers lately. Women and children, half-dressed in dirty
rags which do not hide the form, come out from their low stone huts
upon the windy terraces, and stand, arms akimbo, staring at us, and not
seldom hailing us in harsh voices. Their sole dress is often a single
split and torn gown, not reaching to the bare knees, evidently the
original of those in the Naples ballet (it will, no doubt, be different
when those creatures exchange the ballet for the ballot); and, with
their tangled locks and dirty faces, they seem rather beasts than
women. Are their husbands brigands, and are they in wait for us in the
chestnut-grove yonder?

The grove is charming; and the men we meet there gathering sticks are
not so surly as the women. They point the way; and when we emerge from
the wood, St. Maria a Castello is before us on a height, its white and
red church shining in the sun. We climb up to it. In front is a broad,
flagged terrace; and on the edge are deep wells in the rock, from which
we draw cool water. Plentifully victualed, one could stand a siege here,
and perhaps did in the gamey Middle Ages. Monk or soldier need not wish
a pleasanter place to lounge. Adjoining the church, but lower, is a
long, low building with three rooms, at once house and stable, the
stable in the center, though all of them have hay in the lofts. The
rooms do not communicate. That is the whole of the town of St. Maria a
Castello.

In one of the apartments some rough-looking peasants are eating dinner,
a frugal meal: a dish of unclean polenta, a plate of grated cheese, a
basket of wormy figs, and some sour red wine; no bread, no meat. They
looked at us askance, and with no sign of hospitality. We made friends,
however, with the ragged children, one of whom took great delight in
exhibiting his litter of puppies; and we at length so far work