"Europe must bow to France," said Belcastro, who was a confirmed Buonapartist. "Look around us! Ferdinand styles himself King of Naples and of Sicily: whether he is likely to keep that little long, even though protected by the fleets and armies of Britain, is very problematical. You fight for his crown here among the wilds of Calabria, while he spends his days ingloriously at Palermo; and instead of leading on his Italians to battle, to gain a kingdom or a grave, he hunts in the woods of Sicily, clad in a grey doublet, greasy cap and worsted hose, like some ignoble peasant rather than the son of Charles of Parma and Placentia. In truth, he is the most cowardly, ignorant, and indolent sloth on this side of the Alps. His feeble cause would expire altogether, but for the indomitable spirit of Carolina of Austria; who is the very reverse of such a husband: her presence at the council-table, when fired with ardour and indignation against the destroyers of her sister Marie Antoinette, is alone sufficient to keep alive the sinking patriotism of our nobles." "Cavalier Galdino," said Marco, angrily, "there is much truth in what you have said: yet remember, that even truth may be treason; and that, if you always express yourself so freely, there are those not far off who will not permit you to pass without molestation. You are aware how merciless our countrymen are to all favourers of Napoleon. Scarolla is among these mountains with his people——" "Talk not to me of Scarolla!" cried Belcastro, furiously—"a base-born brigand, to whom this very Carolina sends arms and money: and perhaps she has disgraced the order of St. Constantine by hanging it on his villainous neck, as on that of Francatripa, and Mamone the blood-quaffer. A thousand devils! tell me not of Scarolla—but, fico! never mind politics. Here, Baptistello! clear the table, and bring more wine. What shall it be? Malvasia or Champagne? I have some excellent Muscatelle—its flavour is matchless. Shall it be placed before you?" "Thank you, with pleasure," said I, bowing, glad to find that our irritable host was discovering a little more of the gentleman in his manner. "I never drink Muscatelle," said Castelermo. This I knew to be false: it was his favourite wine. "But, Signor Belcastro, I——’ "Have no objection to try yours, you would say? Right, Varro—hand down the old silver jars from the left side of the cabinet there: the lower shelf," he added, throwing a ring with keys towards the servant.