“San Genaro!” replied the host, “why, where hast thou left thy garment?” “Among the robbers between this and Fondi.” “What! rob an estafette! I never heard of such folly. What could they hope to get from thee?” “My leather breeches!” replied the estafette. “They were bran new, and shone like gold, and hit the fancy of the captain.” “Well, these fellows grow worse and worse. To meddle with an estafette! And that merely for the sake of a pair of leather breeches!” The robbing of a government messenger seemed to strike the host with More astonishment than any other enormity that had taken place on the road; and indeed it was the first time so wanton an outrage had been committed; the robbers generally taking care not to meddle with any thing belonging to government. The estafette was by this time equipped; for he had not lost an instant in making his preparations while talking. The relay was ready: the rosolio tossed off. He grasped the reins and the stirrup. “Were there many robbers in the band?” said a handsome, dark young man, stepping forward from the door of the inn. “As formidable a band as ever I saw,” said the estafette, springing into the saddle. “Are they cruel to travellers?” said a beautiful young Venetian lady, who had been hanging on the gentleman’s arm. “Cruel, signora!” echoed the estafette, giving a glance at the lady as he put spurs to his horse. “_Corpo del Bacco!_ they stiletto all the men, and as to the women—” Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!—the last words were drowned in the smacking of the whip, and away galloped the estafette along the road to the Pontine marshes. “Holy Virgin!” ejaculated the fair Venetian, “what will become of us!”