"Basilicata!" I repeated inwardly, as we retired: it seemed almost incredible that the water-logged wreck, under a jury-foresail, even when aided by wind and tide, could have run so far up the gulf since daybreak. Her sailing must have averaged five knots an hour, since we lost sight of the Capo della Colonna. Catanio, who by his taciturnity and outward trim appeared to be a monk, led me into an ante-room, where he furnished me with dry apparel. I asked him numerous questions concerning my host, but he seemed very unwilling to gratify my curiosity. "Signor Catanio," said I, while slipping on a pair of black cotton breeches; "I presume he is a man of rank." "In Italy none is nobler; the vicegerent of God excepted," he replied, energetically. "You are an Abbruzzese by your accent, I think?" The old fellow smiled sourly, and took a great pinch of snuff. "I am an honest man," said he, handing his snuff-box to me, and bundling my wet uniform, somewhat contemptuously, into a chest, which he locked. "And my host," I continued, thrusting on a black serge jacket; "he must be a churchman, as he is served by priests: how am I to address him?" "Italians style him, ’his eminence;’ but we, his faithful domestics and followers,——" "Eminence!—is he Cardinal Ruffo?" "Ruffo, the apostate!" repeated the other, with such intense scorn, that I was undeceived. "He is a cardinal at all events; and I (unhappy pagan!) have been styling him plain signor. Excuse my laughing; but, faith! one feels so comfortable in these dry clothes, after the misery of—but what is this? I am not going to a masquerade!" "It is our master’s pleasure that you attire yourself thus," said Catanio, handing me a cassock and three flapped-hat like his own; "it is your only safe disguise." "It is just like a snug dressing-gown after all," said I, donning the garment. "You are a perfect monk, signor!" said the old man, smiling kindly; "but do not keep your head so erect: that is an old habit. Ah! there was a time—but here are your beads—tie the girdle thus. Bravo! you are a very monk." "Snuff, grease, garlic, &c. excepted," I thought. "I am happy to assist in saving a countryman from those false Frenchmen." "A countryman—what! are you a Scotchman?’ "Born and bred, sir," said he, laying aside his Italian, and with an effort recalling the strong northern dialect of his boyhood. "I was called Duncan Catanach, and in happier days dwelt near Lochaber, in old Caledonia; which I would fain behold once more before I die." The eyes of the old man glistened, and we shook hands with all the brotherly warmth of heart with which Scot greets Scot in a foreign land. "I rejoice to meet in this place a subject of old George III." "I am no subject of his! the petty princes—" "Ha! some follower of Watt, who was beheaded for treason—eh?"