when they get over a ridge, to begin
singing. Nor did I fail, early as was the hour, to sing in passing
this the second of my Apennine summits. I sang easily with an open
throat everything that I could remember in praise of joy; and I did
not spare the choruses of my songs, being even at pains to imitate
(when they were double) the various voices of either part.

Now, so much of the Englishman was in me that, coming round a corner
of rock from which one first sees Beduzzo hanging on its ledge (as you
know), and finding round this corner a peasant sitting at his ease, I
was ashamed. For I did not like to be overheard singing fantastic
songs. But he, used to singing as a solitary pastime, greeted me, and
we walked along together, pointing out to each other the glories of
the world before us and exulting in the morning. It was his business
to show me things and their names: the great Mountain of the
Pilgrimage to the South, the strange rock of Castel-Nuovo; in the far
haze the plain of Parma; and Tizzano on its high hill, the ridge
straight before me. He also would tell me the name in Italian of the
things to hand--my boots, my staff, my hat; and I told him their names
in French, all of which he was eager to learn.

We talked of the way people here tilled and owned ground, of the
dangers in the hills, and of the happiness of lonely men. But if you
ask how we understood each other, I will explain the matter to you.

In Italy, in the Apennines of the north, there seem to be three strata
of language. In the valleys the Italian was pure, resonant, and
foreign to me. There dwell the townsmen, and they deal down river
with the plains. Half-way up (as at Frangi, at Beduzzo, at Tizzano) I
began to understand them. They have the nasal 'n'; they clip their
words. On the summits, at last, they speak like northerners, and I was
easily understood, for they said not _'vino' _but _'vin';_ not _'duo'_
but _'du'_, and so forth. They are the Gauls of the hills. I told them
so, and they were very pleased.

Then I and my peasant parted, but as one should never leave a man
without giving him something to show by way of token on the Day of
Judgement, I gave this man a little picture of Milan, and bade him
keep it for my sake.

So he went his way, and I mine, and the last thing he said to me was
about a _'molinar'_, but I did not know what that meant.

When I had taken a cut down the mountain, and discovered a highroad at
the bottom, I