We waited for three-quarters of an hour, in
the glaring dust of the turnpike; she never emerged again, and the
remaining boy stoutly refused to handle her load.
"No," he declared. "She must carry the bag. And I will keep you company."
The precious morning hours were wearing away, and here we stood idly by
the side of the road. It never struck me that the time might have been
profitably employed in paying a flying visit to one of the most sacred
objects in Calabria and possibly in the whole world, one which Signor N.
Marcene describes as reposing at Bagnara in a rich reliquary - the
authentic Hat of the Mother of God. A lady tourist would not have missed
this chance of studying the fashions of those days. [Footnote: See next
chapter.]
Finally, in desperation, I snatched up the wretched luggage and poured
my griefs with unwonted eloquence into the ears of a man driving a
bullock-cart down the road. So much was he moved, that he peremptorily
ordered his son to conduct me then and there to Sinopoli, to carry the
bag, and claim one franc by way of payment. The little man tumbled off
the cart, rather reluctantly.
"Away with you!" cried the stern parent, and we began the long march,
climbing uphill in the blazing sunshine; winding, later on, through
shady chestnut woods and across broad tracts of cultivated land.
