ne, the night was loud with storm.

There was but one vehicle at the station, a shabby, creaking,
mud-plastered sort of coach, into which I bundled together with two
travellers of the kind called commercial--almost the only species of
traveller I came across during these southern wanderings. A long time
was spent in stowing freightage which, after all, amounted to very
little; twice, thrice, four, and perhaps five times did we make a false
start, followed by uproarious vociferation, and a jerk which tumbled us
passengers all together. The gentlemen of commerce rose to wild
excitement, and roundly abused the driver; as soon as we really
started, their wrath changed to boisterous gaiety. On we rolled,
pitching and tossing, mid darkness and tempest, until, through the
broken window, a sorry illumination of oil-lamps showed us one side of
a colonnaded street. "Bologna! Bologna!" cried my companions, mocking
at this feeble reminiscence of their fat northern town. The next moment
we pulled up, our bruised bodies colliding vigorously for the last
time; it was the _Albergo Concordia_.

A dark stone staircase, yawning under the colonnade; on the first
landing an open doorway; within, a long corridor, doors of bedrooms on
either side, and in a room at the far end a glimpse of a tablecloth.
This was the hotel, the whole of it. As soon as I grasped the
situation, it was clear to me why my fellow travellers had entered with
a rush and flung themselves into rooms; there might, perchance, be only
one or two chambers vacant, and I knew already that Cotrone offered no
other decent harbourage. Happily I did not suffer for my lack of
experience; after trying one or two doors in vain, I found a
sleeping-place which seemed to be unoccupied, and straightway took
possession of it. No one appeared to receive the arriving guests.
Feeling very hungry, I went into the room at the end of the passage,
where I had seen a tablecloth; a wretched lamp burned on the wall, but
only after knocking, stamping, and calling did I attract attention;
then issued from some mysterious region a stout, slatternly, sleepy
woman, who seemed surprised at my demand for food, but at length
complied with it. I was to have better acquaintance with my hostess of
the _Concordia_ before I quitted Cotrone.

Next morning the wind still blew, but the rain was over; I could begin
my rambles. Like the old town of Taranto, Cotrone occupies the site of
the ancient acropolis, a l