The Count turned to a middle-aged man who had remained in the shadows,
saying: "This is Ricardo Ferara, my good right hand, of whom you have
heard me speak." The overseer raised his hat, and Blake took his hand,
catching a glimpse of a grizzled face and a stiff mop of iron-gray
hair. "You will see to Signore Blake's baggage, Ricardo. Michele!
Ippolito!" the Count called. "The carretta, quickly! And now, caro
Norvin, for the last leg of your journey. Will you ride in the cart or
on horseback? It is not far, but the roads are steep."

"Horseback, by all means. My muscles need exercise."

The young men mounted a pair of compact Sicilian horses, which were
held by still another man in the street behind the depot, and set off
up the winding road which climbed to the village above. Blake
regretted the lateness of the hour, which prevented him from gaining
an adequate idea of his surroundings. He could see, however, that they
were picturesque, for San Sebastiano lay in a tiny step hewed out of
the mountain-side and was crowded into one street overlooking the
railway far below and commanding a view of the sea toward the
Calabrian coast. As the riders clattered through the poorly lighted
village, Blake saw the customary low-roofed houses, the usual squalid
side-streets, more like steep lanes than thoroughfares, and heard the
townspeople pronouncing the name of the Count of Martinello, while the
ever-present horde of urchins fled from their path. A beggar appeared
beside his stirrup, crying, "I die of hunger, your worship." But the
fellow ran with surprising vigor and manifested a degree of endurance
quite unexampled in a starving man. A glimpse of these, and then the
lights were left behind and they were moving swiftly upward and into
the mountains, skirting walls of stone over which was wafted the
perfume of many flowers, passing fragrant groves of orange and lemon