COTRONE
Night hid from me the scenes that followed.
Darkling, I passed again
through the station called Sybaris, and on and on by the sea-shore,
the sound of breakers often audible. From time to time I discerned
black mountain masses against a patch of grey sky, or caught a
glimpse of blanching wave, or felt my fancy thrill as a stray gleam
from the engine fire revealed for a moment another trackless wood.
Often the hollow rumbling of the train told me that we were crossing
a bridge; the stream beneath it bore, perhaps, a name in legend or
in history. A wind was rising; at the dim little stations I heard it
moan and buffet, and my carriage, where all through the journey I
sat alone, seemed the more comfortable. Rain began to fall, and
when, about ten o'clock, I alighted at Cotrone, the night was loud
with storm.
There was but one vehicle at the station, a shabby, creaking,
mud-plastered sort of coach, into which I bundled together with two
travellers of the kind called commercial - almost the only species
of traveller I came across during these southern wanderings. A long
time was spent in stowing freightage which, after all, amounted to
very little; twice, thrice, four, and perhaps five times did we make
a false start, followed by uproarious vociferation, and a jerk which
tumbled us passengers all together. The gentlemen of commerce rose
to wild excitement, and roundly abused the driver; as soon as we
really started, their wrath changed to boisterous gaiety.
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