Castelermo, upon whom the adventures of the past night had made a gloomy impression, rode beside me for many miles in silence. His mind was, doubtless, reverting to a thousand long-forgotten dreams and cherished thoughts, which his interview with the fickle Despina and the sound of her voice had summoned before him; while I, on the contrary, felt light-hearted as the distance diminished between us and the villa D’Alfieri, which it was my intention to visit on our way to head-quarters. I thought more of Bianca’s bright eyes and glossy ringlets, than the oblong despatches, returns of killed, wounded, prisoners and missing, lists of captured cannon, stores, &c. &c., with which Macleod had stuffed my sabre-tache, for the perusal of Sir John Stuart. After a time, the wonted serenity of the cavalier returned, and as the country into which we penetrated became more mountainous and romantic, he related to me many a wild legend and tradition of blood and sorcery—of Gothic chiefs, Norman knights, and Saracen emirs, and many a sad story of Italian love; all of which have long since passed away from my remembrance. Every rood of ground was rich in memories of the past, and covered with the moss-grown relics of bygone nations and ages. A ride of twelve miles or so brought us to Catanzaro, in the principality of Squillaci, one of the finest towns in Calabria Ultra, situated about two miles from the Adriatic. Catanzaro then bore many traces of that terrible earthquake which in 1783 devastated those provinces and the Isle of Sicily; and it has been almost wholly destroyed by a similar visitation in 1832. Its ladies were esteemed the most beautiful in southern Italy; but I had little opportunity of judging for myself: we had the pleasure of seeing only one handsome girl, who, during the hour or two we halted, displayed a formidable sample of the worst traits in the Calabrian character. A small party of Italian troops, sent over from Palermo, were quartered in the town. Their uniform was white, with scarlet facings and epaulettes, black cross-belts and heavy bear-skin caps; altogether they were very soldier-like fellows, and their commanding officer, a gay young Neapolitan, whom we met at the table d’hôte, was not less so. As we had been acquainted at Palermo, in the course of ten minutes we became intimate as old friends; and Captain Valerio Piozzi, of Caroline’s Italian Guard, soon made us aware that he was the most reckless and dissipated cavalier in Ferdinand’s service, and that he thought it no small honour to be deemed so. But we knew all that before: his pranks and gallantries had long furnished laughter and conversation for every mess and coterie in Sicily. Castelermo changed colour when we met him.