the numbers for an ordinary misfortune, was too general.  It seemed a pity I had not been involved in the fall of a balcony because that was a very good thing to bet on and he knew it had a number, although he did not remember it at the moment.  Filippo, the hunchback, was no use because, though it is fortunate to meet hunchbacks, and of course they have a number, there was nothing remarkable in seeing Filippo at the caserma—he is always there.

By this time we had reached Castelvetrano, and supper overshadowed the

lottery.  Angelo cooked everything; we began with maccaroni, after which we ate the fish and the sparrows, and wound up with the rabbit.  It was all very good, but it seemed hardly right to eat the sparrows, besides, there was scarcely as much on one of them as there had been on one of the artichokes at the caserma.

During supper, something—it may have been the sparrows or, perhaps, the Madonna again—inspired me with an idea for a number that met with Angelo’s enthusiastic approval.  I remembered that my birthday was near and proposed to put my money upon the number of that day of the month.  Nothing could have been better and he recommended me to take also my age, that would give me two numbers and I could have an ambo, I should not win on a single number unless it came out first, whereas, if I did not specify their positions, my two numbers might come out anywhere and if they did I should win about 250 francs.  Angelo accepted as a good omen the fact that neither of my numbers exceeded 90, and next morning we called on his cousin and put a franc on 27 and 52.

Now, a lottery is an immoral thing,

accordingly I expected to feel as though I had committed an immoral action, instead of which I felt just as I usually do.  I, therefore, gave my ticket to Angelo in order that, if I should develop a conscience by the time the numbers came out, I might silence it by the consciousness of having disclaimed all hope of gain.  This was perhaps a little cowardly, for the effects of a lottery are said to be most pernicious to those who win.  But no harm was done in the end, the actual numbers drawn the following Saturday being 39, 42, 89, 83, 28, so Angelo lost and likewise the brigadier and the corporal and the guards who had put their money on 33.

CASTELLINARIA

CHAPTER II—PEPPINO

The train passed through the tunnel under the headland on which stands the Albergo Belvedere, and steamed into the station of Castellinaria, a town that is not so marked on any map of Sicily.  I had written to Carmelo to meet the train and drive me up, but he was not among the coachmen.  I recognized his brother, and said to him—

“Hullo! Rosario, where have you been all these years?”

“Well, you see,” he replied, “I have been away.  First there was the military service and then I had a disgrazia; but I have come back now.”

I avoided inquiring into the disgrazia till I could ascertain from some one else whether he meant what we should call a misfortune or something more serious and merely said

I was glad it was all over and asked after his brother.

“Carmelo is quite well—he is in private service.  He told me to meet you and sent you his salutes and apologies for not coming himself; he will call on you this evening.”

“At the Albergo Belvedere?”

“No, excuse me, the Belvedere is closed; he told me to take you to the Albergo della Madonna, unless you wish to go anywhere else.”

So Rosario drove me with my luggage up the zigzags for an hour and a half through dust and sunshine, past orchards of lemons and oranges, among prickly pears and agave overgrown with pink and red geranium, by rocky slopes of mesembryanthemum, yellow marguerites, broom and sweet peas, between white walls with roses straggling over them and occasional glimpses of the sea dotted with fishing boats and, now and then, of the land covered with olives, almonds, and vines.

We stopped in the corso at the Albergo della Madonna (con giardino) and were received by a young man who introduced himself as Peppino, the son of the landlord.  He also said he remembered me, that he

had been a waiter in a restaurant in Holborn where I used to dine; I did not recognize him, though, of course, I did not say so.  There was something in his manner as though he had recently been assured by my banker that the balance to my credit during the last ten years or so had never fallen below a much larger sum than my passbook had been in the habit of recording.  He would not hear of my doing anything about my luggage or dinner, he knew my ways and would show me to my room at once.  It was a very fine room with two beds, and he promised that no one should be put into the second bed, not even during the festa which in a few days would fill the town with pilgrims.  He then departed to bring up my luggage and I went out on to the balcony.

Before me lay one of those stupendous panoramas which are among the glories of Sicily.  First a garden of flowers with orange and lemon trees whose blossoms scented the air, then a thicket of almonds full of glittering goldfinches, then a drop of several hundred feet; beyond, to the right, a great mountain with snow on its rocky summit, its lower slopes and the intervening country

highly cultivated; to the left the sea, an illimitable opal gleaming in the sunset.  Between the mountain and the sea the coastline went in and out, in and out, in a succession of bays and promontories that receded and receded until sea and land and sky were blended into one distant haze.  Across the first bay was the port and, as the dusk deepened, constellations of lights gathered and glowed among the shipping.  I took possession, thinking that if, like Peppino’s parents, I might spend my declining days here, the troubles of life, and especially those attendant upon old age, might be easier to bear.  And yet, possibly, a stupendous panorama might turn out as deceitful as proficiency at whist, or great riches, or worldly honours, or any of the other adjuncts of age popularly supposed to be desirable; for I suspect that most of these things fail and become as naught in the balance when weighed against a good digestion, a modest competency and a quiet conscience.  These are the abiding securities that smooth our passage through life and bring a man peace at the last, and each of us has his own way of going about to win them.

Peppino brought my luggage and, with

no nonsense about what I would have for dinner or when or where I should like it, told me that it would be ready at 7.30 in the garden.  Accordingly I went down punctually and found a table spread under a trellis of vines from which hung an electric light.  Peppino waited on me as, according to his account, he used to do in London, and entertained me with reminiscences of his life there.  He had attended divine service at St. Paul’s, which he called il Duomo di Londra, and had found it a more reverent function, though less emotional, than Mass at home.  He was enthusiastic about the river Thames, the orators in Hyde Park and the shiny soldiers riding in the streets.  He remembered the lions in the Zoological Gardens and the “Cock” at Highbury, where he once drank a whisky-soda and disliked it intensely.  He had stood on the base of La Torre del Duca di Bronte (by which he meant the