Candiduccia dives into the kitchen, and a moment later your dinner is before you—a big, dimpled omelet, trout from the stream fried in olive oil, and crisp salad in a big majolica bowl. “Sposa” cuts the fresh, rough bread—first making the sign of the Cross over the loaf—and serves you cream-cheese made from goat’s milk, instead of butter. Butter and cow’s milk do not enter into the Sabina bill of fare—our mountain people do not care about these things; but it is a feast for the gods, all the same. When the time comes to go, you give “Sposa” what you think right, and she takes it rather unwillingly, but very gratefully, and as you ride away she and her girls stand at the door and wave their hands and say “La Madonna v’accompagni,” and the boys, young rascals, will race your horses to the foot of the hill or the turn in the road, knowing well that you will give them a few coppers for their very own as soon as you are out of sight of “Mammà,” who, you may be sure, will never hear of the transaction. If one is an invited guest at some important farm-house an elaborate feast is prepared, and there are heart-burnings if the guests do not eat heartily of everything. I remember once going with the Cavalettis to the _bene_ of one of their tenants, for dinner—a really mediæval repast which staggered even my robust young appetite. It began with the _polentata_, a curious first course which is _de rigueur_ in Sabina when guests of honour are being entertained. The chief table was already set out with a dozen kinds of fresh and dried fruits, _alicetti_ (the tiny local sardines), smoked ham, and home-made liqueurs, all intended to stimulate the appetite. But before sitting down to that we were led to a small pine-wood table at one side of the room and requested to take our seats around it. Then the mistress of the house advanced with a huge cauldron of polenta, which, to my consternation, she poured out on the freshly-scrubbed table-top, so deftly that it exactly covered the entire surface. I stared, wondering what was to happen next; but my companions took no notice of me, and the Marchese, whom his peasants adored—as did everybody else who knew him—leant back in his chair and discussed the condition of the game in the woods with “Sor Giacomo,” while the wife, a piece of new string in her hands, watched the polenta cool and fix to about the consistency of cream cheese. Then, suddenly leaning over my shoulder, she cut it swiftly across and across with the string in symmetrical divisions nearly a foot square, one for each person, solemnly handed us each a spoon, and, bowing gracefully, begged us to eat! It was a searching preparation for a hearty meal!