So, signor, you now behold me a brother of the most reverend and illustrious order of St. John of Jerusalem, once of Rhodes, and latterly of Malta. After the reduction by Buonaparte of that barren rock (the last stronghold of the order), I retired with his most eminent highness the grand master, and the poor remnant of our forces, to Genoa; where our solemn chapters are yet held. On the breaking out of the Italian war, when the French crossed our frontier to plant their banner of blood and anarchy on the ramparts of Rome—to assail God’s vicegerent in his own eternal city, drive the Bourbon king from Naples, hoist their red cap above the winged horse, and establish a republic of injustice and tyranny—then I once more girded on the sword, and have ever since been fighting; at one time under the chiefs of the Masse, at another under the British: but, alas! oftener under Francatripa and other bold bandits of Naples; who seem to be the only men truly staunch to Italy in these days of war and peril. Malediction on the hour when a wearer of this blessed badge has to stoop to a companionship so unworthy! But the end sanctifies the means. * * * There is the Villa Belcastro! If my story has beguiled a part of the way through this wild and mountainous country, I shall consider myself amply repaid in having pleased you: but I fear, Signor Claude, you have found it dry enough; though the tale is a sad one to me—the most dismal chapter of my history indeed. *CHAPTER XX.* *THE VILLA BELCASTRO.* "Where is the path? It seems lost in the wilderness hereabout," said I, when my communicative friend had concluded. "Yonder woman at the fountain will perhaps show us the way to the gate. Permit me to pass," replied the cavalier, as he spurred his horse to the front, and galloped before me: his tall military figure, and peculiar garb and equipment, with the solitary wild around us—the castellated villa, and the lonely hills—had an air of romance with which my red coat, jack-boots, and most unchivalric cocked-hat, but ill consorted. The country through which we had travelled was of the most picturesque character: lofty mountains rose up against the blue vault, which they seemed to sustain; they were covered to their summits with the light foliage of the olive, the heavy branches of the sombre pine, the broad masses of the glossy-leaved ilex, fragrant myrtle, rich arbutus, orange and lemon groves, all flourishing in the wildest luxuriance; while the aloe, the cactus, and date-palm, grew among the ferruginous rocks in profusion. Little hamlets, inhabited only by charcoal-burners, nestled in lonely nooks; solitary chapels, old crosses marking deeds of blood or piety, and the mouldering ruins of long-departed races—the Calabri or the Locri—appeared half-hidden amid the long reedy grass, in the flat alluvial vales through which the roadway wound.