The beauty of the scenery and freshness of the morning drew my steps towards Canne, which I beheld on the sea-shore, about two miles distant; its white walls, church spire, and casements, gleaming in the rising sun. The sound of distant bells reminded me that it was Sunday. The morning was cloudless, the sky blue, the earth green and glistening with dew; the wide gulf of Tarento sparkled with light as it vanished into dimness and misty obscurity; the horizontal line where sea met sky, being only marked by some sail glittering, like a snow-wreath or white cloud, in the distance. The road was narrow, and, being bordered by thick copsewood, was cool and shady. I wandered on until a turn unexpectedly brought me upon the parade of a regiment of French infantry, which had just been inspected by Massena, and was being formed into sections preparatory to marching. My heart beat quick: discovery was death, and I shrank from the lynx-like gaze of the ferocious Massena; who, after a few words with the colonel, galloped off accompanied by his aide. I began to breathe a little more freely. I recognised the 12th Grenadiers in their blue greatcoats and bear-skin caps; and at their head my old friend De Bourmont, as paunchy and merry as ever. An exchange of prisoners had taken place, and all that we had captured were once more in arms against us. The band struck up, the arms flashed as they were sloped in the sun, and the battalion moved off, _en route_ for the frontiers of Calabria; where Massena was concentrating his forces at the very time our troops were about to abandon the country. How bravely the sharp trumpet and the hoarse drums rang in the wooded way, as they marched through the green defiles! Whilst I listened, regardless of time and place, cassock and cope, some peasant women approached that I might bestow a benison on their children; they, however, received only very vague and curious answers as I pushed past and hurried back towards the good cardinal’s villa, from which I had been too long absent. After I had breakfasted hastily in my own apartment, Catanio informed me that as his majesty was to celebrate high mass at Canne, as a piece of etiquette it would be necessary for me to attend. "Faith! I have entertained the natives enough for one day," said I. Catanio frowned; and being obliged to consent, a mule was brought me, and I set off with the household of the cardinal. A lumbering, old-fashioned coach bore his eminence from the villa, at a most solemn pace; its little Roman horses appearing dwarfed to the size of ponies beside the ancient vehicle, on whose carved and gilded pannels shone the crown and arms of Britain. The old man considered himself in everything a king; and doubtless an excellent one he would have made, if we judge by the goodness of his heart, and the fidelity of his few and disinterested adherents.