After luncheon we started in the automobile for the convent, perched on a hill high above Fiesole. When we had made half the distance, we passed an automobile stuck fast in the mire. Soon after we were obliged to turn back on account of the snow; the road runs in spirals; some of the turns are sharp, a true mountain highway, with a precipice on either side. Just as we turned a sharp curve, the machine came to a sudden stop. A tree trunk, big as a railroad sleeper, lay directly in our path, placed across the road since we made the ascent. “A close call!” muttered the chauffeur, as he put on the brake and stopped the car. If he had not been quick as a flash, we should have had a bad accident. Charles next sprang from the car, dragged the log to the edge of the path and hurled it down the mountainside. “That dago will have a little trouble to tote you up again!” he chuckled, as the great piece of wood hurtled down the steep. “A miss is as good as a mile,” our host reassured us. “Such wickedness as that makes me sick,” said Charles, as he twirled the steering wheel and set the car in motion. We were all silent for the next mile or two. Which of us was it meant for? Who has so cruel an enemy? We never knew. When I read lately of Mr. Edward Boit and his brother being “held up” and robbed near Vallombrosa, not very far from Fiesole, I wondered if we had escaped the same band of brigands. “Do you know a man who wants to go down and help Captain Belknap at Messina?” I asked Mr. Brush, as we sped down the incline, leaving Fiesole behind, past the Villa Palmieri where the characters of Boccaccio’s Decamerone lived during the great plague of 1348. “My son Gerome has wanted to go down ever since the earthquake. I will send him to see you tonight,” said the artist. That evening Gerome Brush called at our hotel; it was agreed that I should write Belknap, offering his services in whatever capacity he could be useful. “I am in the automobile business now,” the young man said, “but that’s only temporary. When I go back to America I shall study law. I have been trying to get to Sicily all winter; do fix it up for me!” It was “fixed up.” Belknap telegraphed us to send Brush, and we all returned to Rome. “Why don’t you end up your trip by all coming down here?” The question was repeated several times in J.’s letters. As a result, on the 24th of March, Patsy, Gerome Brush and I left Rome for Sicily. We traveled as far as Naples with Mr. Parrish and his niece, who were to sail in a few days for home and could not come with us. The trip from Rome to Naples was a pleasant one, though the spring was very backward. Only a few quince and apricot trees were in blossom; the beautiful vineyards were still dark, without a sign of promise. Hanging from tree to tree in the old classic fashion, the vines made a lovely pattern of delicate black tracery against the fervent blue sky.