I was almost ready to get into bed, when a heavy step came along the passage accompanied by the cheerful whistling of an old opera air. I sprang up, too late to prevent the door being thrown wide open—and found myself staring at a tall young man in town clothes and a red tie, who jumped back as if he had been shot. I screamed—he swore—and then we both broke into peals of laughter. As soon as he could get his breath he apologized abjectly for the intrusion—“Mammà” had not told him about any guests—I was a thousand times welcome to his room—and would I permit him to look for some necessary articles before he relieved me of the inconvenience of his presence? I tried to bow with proper dignity, sitting on the edge of the bed with a cloak around me, and he scuttled about, dived into various drawers for garments, tobacco, matches, and took his leave with careful courtesy, never having even glanced in my direction after the first startling encounter. The country dandy was quite as much of a “blue-rose” as the Austrian Prince who earned his name among the girls in Rome—but that paladin belongs to another story. As one travels southward the character of the people changes, and in the later years of my life I have felt more at home with my fellow beings of the South than with the inhabitants of Romagna. Their outlook is simpler, more indulgent, and their religious faith far more fervent. I think the southern custom of going on pilgrimages was a very valuable one to the contadini of the “Regno.” It used to be rare to find middle-aged people of the labouring class in the province who had not travelled a little in that way and thus learnt that the world was not confined to their own small town or hamlet. I suppose the good custom will die out in time, like so many others, but it will not suffer much diminution while such wonderful new centres of attraction spring up as, for instance, the “Santuario” of New Pompeii, which I described in a former book.[11] But many an unforgotten shrine in the more remote hills has, like La Mentorana in the Sabines, its one day or night of glory in the year, when the peasants come in great bands, even from far away, and the chants and litanies go up all night long in and around some dim old church. Such a festival takes place at San Salvatore in the Abruzzi, in the late summer, and is the scene of a great gathering of the people of the Penisola Sarrcutina.