"Valerio Piozzi!" he whispered to me; "our friend is the identical officer of whom our late acquaintance the Signor Galdino was so jealous. Basta! there was good reason to be on the alert, and keep Despina close while he was so near as Catanzaro!" "I have news for you, Signor Capitano," said Marco, as we lounged from the table d’hôte towards a cantina. "My friend, I am glad of that," said the captain, with a half yawn, "’tis so deuced dull here, that one seems quite out of the world—entombed—bedevilled!" "Il Cavaliere di Belcastro—" "Ha!" exclaimed the captain, changing countenance, and turning briskly to Marco, whom he keenly scrutinized through his glass, which never left his eye. "My gay Valerio, I have a tale to tell which will harrow up your heart, if you have one." "The deuce!" "The husband of Despina is dead—" "The devil! is that all?" exclaimed the captain, with an almost uncontrollable burst of laughter. "That makes me merry," he added, stroking his mustachios, which were well perfumed and pointed with pomatum. "The particulars, Caro Signor: slain by the brigands, I presume?" "No, by his own evil passions." "Faith, they nearly slew even me in Venice," replied Piozzi, who, on hearing of our visit to the villa, tossed his cap into the air. "Che gioja, what happiness!" he exclaimed; "I must to horse, and away to Despina (I saw poor Marco’s brow cloud). Ola, my horse! Annibale Porko, seek my servant," he cried to a sergeant who passed, "and order my horses in an hour." The soldier saluted, and withdrew. "Per Baccho! ’tis joyous news: old Galdino gone to the Styx. Amen! Devil go with him. What a merry bout we shall have.—And his property—all settled on the Cavalieressa—bravo, Valerio! luckiest of dogs! Here, Signor Cantiniero, wine—wine! What shall we have, Marco—say Signor Dundas—you are a judge: Muscatelle?" "Basta! no—we have had enough of that," said Castelermo shrugging his shoulders. "Ha—ha! I forgot," replied Valerio with a reckless laugh—"ruddy Burgogna then—golden Andaluzia—sparkling champagne, gleaming like diamonds in sunbeams?’ "As you please, I am no connoisseur," said I, and two large crystal jars of the last were speedily summoned. "Corpo di Baccho! it is a punishment for a Carthusian to reside here in this dull place on the Adriatic shore," said the captain, as we lounged on the rustic sofas, beneath the vine covered verandah of the cantina, and pushed the wine jars about the well polished table; "positively I am ennuied to death, and would give a year’s pay to find myself once more at Naples, or even at Reggio—there are some sprightly girls there." "And yet the women of Catanzaro are considered the fairest in Italy," observed a smart young fellow, with whom we had been conversing on various topics for some time past: he had followed us uninvited from the table d’hôte, where his very handsome features and long fair locks had won him our favour.