The cottage of Tucca became the most curiously regarded spot in Capreae, before the dawn of the morning following the circumstances related in the last chapter. Invisible eyes watched it, so that not even a movement of the ancient cur, which lay before the door, was missed, nor the flight of a pigeon from the flock which perched on the roof. The house was a small one almost facing the south, and, consequently, looking nearly full upon the sea. With its left eye, as it were, it looked across to the town of Capreae and the face of the island sloping up to the eastern cliffs. To the right hand there was no path, nor yet foothold, for anything but a bird of the air, and a few yards further on, the crags descended sheer into the sea. These crags rose up above the house, forming the side of the hill, upon which gleamed, above, the walls of the villa of Mars. Thus, it may be seen that the dwelling of Tucca had, for some reason, been perched as far round the outside, seaward face of the hill as possible. Tucca, the owner and occupier of this abode, was an old man, who lived alone with his wife. He was a small man, with a head nearly bald, and had sharp features, withered and prodigiously wrinkled. He was evidently very aged, but of that spare, wiry toughness of body which best defies time. He did not seem to be scrupulously clean in person. His garments might have been worn night and day for months, by their greasy surfaces and obstinate creases, whilst the leather‐like folds of his face had the appearance of being engrained with dirt. He derived his livelihood from wine‐growing and otherwise tilling the ground, and his arduous and lifelong toil had had the effect of imparting a stoop to his slight dried‐up frame. His tenement stretched from the left of his house along the path which led to the town, and his vines, likewise, reached upward, draping the hillside, as far as sufficient soil could be gathered together to give them sustenance.