The aspect of the cavern; one part glaring with lurid light, the other half involved in gloom, where its mysterious recesses pierced into the bowels of the mountain; the women, with their full bosoms, large black eyes, and sandalled feet, their glossy hair braided into tails, or flowing in dishevelled ringlets; the bearded banditti, some in their well-known costume, others in a garb of rough skins, showing their bare legs and arms—their rifles, knives, pistols, and horns, sparkling when they moved; formed a striking scene. Looking outward, also, a view of the distant sea, the smoke of Stromboli piercing the infinity of space above it, the spire of Fiumara, the vine-clad ruins of a Grecian temple, and the long bright river that wound between the hills towards it, formed a subject for the pencil, such as would have raised the enthusiasm of Salvator Rosa; who, in pursuit of the savagely romantic, sojourned for a time among the wilds, the beauties, the terrors, and the banditti of Calabria. Chocolate, kid’s flesh stewed, eggs, milk, dried grapes, and wine, composed the repast: when it was finished, the poor improvisatore, though not quite at ease, found himself compelled to sing; and chose for his theme MARCO SCIARRA, the glory of the Abruzzesi, whose fame and memory the honest man and the bandit alike extol. He sang in ottiva rima and tinkled an accompaniment with his guitar, while every ear listened intently. The scene opened in the wilds of Abruzzi; Marco was at the head of his thousand followers, and in all the plenitude of his power and terror—that chivalric brigandism which gained him the title of Re della Campagna; then we were told how, kneeling by the wayside, he kissed the hand of Tasso, and did homage to the muse; how successfully he warred with Clement VII. and the Count of Conversano, and then fought the battles of the Venetians against their Tuscan enemies: of his bravery, his loves, his compassion, and countless escapes, we all heard in succession, down to that hour when, in the marches of Ancona, he met Battimello, his former friend; who while embracing him, in the true spirit of Italian treachery, struck a dagger in his heart, and sold his head to a papal commissary. Every eye flashed as the minstrel concluded; a groan of rage, mingled with a burst of applause, shook the vaulted cavern: for the theme was one well calculated to interest his hearers deeply; and one very pretty young woman threw her arms around the improvisatore, and kissed him on both cheeks. While all were thus well pleased, we took our departure; and were very glad when the cavern and its inmates were some miles behind us. On bidding adieu to Baptistello, I promised to have his father’s head sent from Messina, if I lived to reach that city in safety. He kissed my hand, and a dark smile lit up the features of Lancelloti: I was too soon to learn the ideas passing in the mind of that abominable traitor.