Tista neither galloped, cantered, nor walked, but simply tumbled down the hill, being considerably assisted in his descent by the weight of the carriage behind. Then came a stretch of comparatively level road, running along the side of the lake, where Tista resumed his ambling, and after a deliberate journey the three, horse, driver and passenger, reached Cantari. Here Eustace left his carriage at the Albergo Garibaldi, and, lighting a cigarette as a preventative against the evil odours of the village, strolled through the narrow streets with listless curiosity. Cantari is situated on the side of a steep mountain which slopes sheer into the lake, and in fact some of the dwellings are built on stone piles over the tideless waters. All the houses, grey and weather-worn are huddled together as if for warmth, and from the bright green forests high above there falls a great sheet of foaming water, which descends through the centre of the village by several stages until it plunges with a muffled roar into the lake. A perfect labyrinth of streets, narrow and gloomy, with tall grey houses on either side, cobbled stone pavements sloping from both sides to an open drain in the centre, and high above a glimpse of blue sky rendered all the more brilliant by the chill darkness of the place below. Then endless flights of rugged stairs, worn into hollows by the heavy feet of many generations, long sombre passages with humid walls, and slender stone bridges throwing a single arch across the tumbling white torrent raging below in dusky depths of cruel seeming. Heavily barred doors set in the massive walls, and higher up, rows of grated windows like those of some oriental seraglio, with open green shutters, just catching a fleeting glimpse of sunlight; still higher, iron railed balconies over which white linen hung out to dry, and highest of all, the vivid red of the tiled roofs, round which swooped and twittered the swift swallows. In these dreary streets and alleys a perpetual twilight ever reigns, adding to the uncanny feeling of the place. Now and then a gaudily-dressed _contadina_, all red skirt, gold earrings and barbaric colouring, clatters down in her wooden pattens; dark-browed, mobile-faced men lounge idly against the walls, laughing gaily, and at intervals sleek grey donkeys, laden with baskets piled with the vivid colours of vegetables and fruit, climb painfully up the steep ascent. "It's like the Middle Ages," mused Eustace, as he toiled upward. "All kinds of dark deeds could take place in these winding streets. I wouldn't be surprised to see a band of the Baglioni waiting for some foe of their house in these dark corners, or to meet Dante climbing these steep stairs dreaming of Hell and Beatrice. Stradella might sing in the moonlight under that high balcony, where doubtless at night a peasant Juliet chatters love in villainous patois to some dark-browed Romeo."