Suddenly, at the corner of a dirty street, where there was a little blue and white shrine to the Madonna, I stumbled against a burly fellow with a gray beard carrying a bit of salt codfish in one hand and a cake of corn bread in the other, eating as he went.
"Gigi!" I cried, in delight, when I recognised the old carrettiere who used to bring me grapes and wine, and still does when the fancy takes him.
"Dio mio! Signor Conte!" he cried, with his mouth full, and holding up the bread and fish with his two hands, in astonishment.

When he recovered himself he instantly offered to share his meal with me, as the poorest wretch in Italy will offer his crust to the greatest prince, out of politeness.

"Vuol favorire ?" he said, smiling.
I thanked him and declined, as you may imagine.

Then I asked him how he came to be in Palestrina; and he told me that he was often there in the winter, as his sister had married a vine-dresser of the place, of whom he bought wine occasionally.

Very well-to-do people, he explained, eagerly, proud of his prosperous relations.
We clambered along through the rough street together, and I asked him what was the news from Serveti and from that part of the country, well knowing that if he had heard of any rich foreigners in that neighbourhood he would at once tell me of it.