A night expedition is always alluring; and, besides, I had wanted to see this particular festa for years, so I took one of the servants with me—a broad-shouldered woman of the people, strong enough to carry me if need be—and we set out, in a carrozzella, on a moonless night towards nine o’clock. Very soon we had left Sorrento and its lights behind and were climbing by steep narrow roads into the wild mountains that cluster round Monte Sant’ Angelo. The chain of the Abruzzi that runs out into the sea as the backbone of the Penisola rises sharp and high from the rounded cup of the Piano di Sorrento, and, elsewhere, gives way but little on either side to the needs of men. From the “Piano” and the narrowing strip of level land, the cliffs facing the north plunge clear into the water which has worn them into huge caves, each with its tiny cove of sand, divided from one another by great outstanding buttresses of rock. As soon as one turns inland one is lost in the twisting defiles that scar the mountains through and through; and the deep old roads, narrow and steep, crawl up away from the regions of vines and olives till they reach wild, empty highlands, where only the hardiest shrubs and flowers will grow. It is an impressive experience to travel through these forgotten roads on a starlit night, further and further from the sound of the sea and the haunts of men. The loneliness is enormous, earth recedes from sight, and one is conscious of very little except that unfathomable sky overhead, dripping and sprayed with live silver to its furthest faintest depths, while some gorgeous planet of our own system wheels its way between crag and crag as one moves along. Broom and wild rosemary reach out from the wall of rock to brush your face; a tang of bitter sweetness, clear as an exclamation, fills your nostrils for an instant, and you know that you are passing a clump of immortelles hidden in a cleft you cannot see. And then the wild power of it all goes to your head; you are not a modern mortal with a thousand anchors fastening you to the scrap heap of the workaday world, but a new-born princess of romance, travelling through the hills of fairyland to take possession of your unknown, enormous castle; its thousand windows are glowing gold beyond that last peak, all lighted up for your reception; in its deep courts and airy bowers invisible subjects will minister to your wants. In a high tower looking south all the great books in the world are waiting to be read; there is a terrace a hundred feet from the ground, perfumed and trellised, where you can watch the stars; and not a single creature in the whole world will ever find the way to the castle!