and who have had the hardihood
to seek the exquisite Lacryma produced on the southwester slopes of
the hill, will remember a peculiar ravine running for nearly a mile
from the sandy part of the cone, and covered with a stunted green
bush of fern-like leaves. It is the nearest green spot to the calcined
cone. It assumes a gentle declivity towards the sea, and is then lost
in the beautiful vineyards and gardens that cover the slopes of the
mountain down to the houses of Torre del Greco. The view from this
spot is magnificent. On the left is the beautiful town of Sorento,
with houses as white as snow, running in detached villas along the
sea-shore up to the smoky and roofless walls of Pompeii, whose unsightly
ruins lend contrast to the scene around. The azure bay seems to borrow
more of the blue of heaven as it stretches far away to the horizon;
the little steamers and innumerable yachts that ply between the islands
give the scene animation and variety. Around to the right we have the
classic hills of Baia, the Campo Santo in its fantastic architecture,
and then the green and leafy plains of the Campo Felice; beneath, the
great city with its four hundred thousand souls, its red tiles and
irregular masses of brick-work, contrasting with the gilded domes of
the superb churches; and above, the terrible cone, vomiting forth its
sulfurous smoke and darkening the sky with clouds of its own creation.

The view that can be had from this place, and the interesting history
of every inch of the country around, render it one of the most romantic
spots in the world. But, alas! it is now, as it was two hundred years
ago, the home and retreat of those desperate Italian robbers known
as brigands. Woe betide the incautious traveller whom curiosity leads
through the vineyards of that lonely scene! The deeds of its outlawed
and daring inhabitants would fill volumes. It was here, too, as far
as we can learn, our heroines found their field of battle.

The troops had scarcely entered this ravine when a sharp, shrill whistle
rang from one side of the mountain to the other. Immediately human
voices were heard on all sides, repeating in every pitch of tone, from
bass to soprano, the word "Rione." For several minutes the mountain
echoed with the weird sound of the brigand war-cry; the troops were
ordered to stand in readiness, and timid hearts like Henry's quailed
at the awful moment.

The earth rumbled under their feet, and dark, blu