Whilst We Talked, The Entrance To The Cave Was Shadowed, And There
Entered One Of The Men Who Had Turned Back Half-Way; His Face
Betrayed The Curiosity Which Had After All Prevailed To Bring Him
Hither.
Shouting merrily, my companion hailed him as "Brigadiere."
The two friends contrasted very amusingly; for the brigadiere was a
mild, timid, simple creature, who spoke with diffidence; he kept his
foolishly good-natured eyes fixed upon me, a gaze of wonder.
After
listening to all that my guide had to say - it was nothing to the
point, dealing chiefly with questions of railway engineering - I
had just begun to explain my interest in the locality, and I
mentioned the name of Cassiodorus. As it passed my lips the jovial
fellow burst into a roar of laughter. "Cassiodorio! Ha, ha!
Cassiodorio! Ha, ha, ha!" I asked him what he meant, and found that
he was merely delighted to hear a stranger unexpectedly utter a name
in familiar local use. He ran out from the cave, and pointed up the
valley; yonder was a fountain which bore the name "Fontana di
Cassiodorio." (From my authors I knew of this; it may or may not
have genuine historic interest.) Thereupon, I tried to discover
whether any traditions hung to the name, but these informants had
only a vague idea that Cassiodorus was a man of times long gone by.
How, they questioned in turn, did I know anything about him? Why,
from books, I replied; among them books which the ancient himself
had written more than a thousand years ago.
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