llen and unfortunate-looking town. Once it was a noted haunt of
brigands, and even yet, as the sullen peasants stand about its one great
street, which is still the Appian Way, they look as if they regretted
not to be able to seize me and take me to the hills to hold me to
ransom. But Fondi, gloomiest of towns, has other stories than those of
the brethren of Fra Diavolo. There is a castle in the town, once the
property of the Colonnas, and in the sixteenth century this palace was
attacked by a pirate, Barbarossa, a Turk and a daring one. His object
was to capture Countess Giulia Gonzaga for the hareem of the Sultan. He
failed but played havoc among its inhabitants and burnt part of the
town. It was rebuilt and burnt again by the Turks in 1594.

We rushed through the latter part of the gloomy town at a gallop. I was
glad to see the last of it and get into the clear air. Then my horses
climbed the long slope of the Monte St Andrea, where the steep road is
cut through hills, while I walked. And then as evening came on we swept
down into Itri. This too was gloomy, but not, like Fondi, built upon a
flat. This shadowy wreck of ancient times lies on hills and among them.
It has an air of mountain savagery. It looks like a ruined mediaeval
fortress. Broken archways, once part of the Appian Way, are made into
substructures for ragged, ruinous modern houses. The place is peaked and
pined, desolate, hungry and savage. In it was born Fra Diavolo, who was
brigand, soldier and political servant to Cardinal Ruffo when the French
Republic, in the beginning of the nineteenth century, invaded the
Kingdom of Naples. Once he was lord of the country from the Garigliano
to Postella; he even interrupted all communications between Naples and
Rome. He was sentenced to death and a price set on his head. Finally he
was shot at Baronissi. In such a country one might well believe in the
wildest legends of his career.

And now the night fell and my driver drove fast. He even engaged in a
wild race with another vehicle, entirely careless of my safety or his
own. The pace we drove at put my Italian out of my head, for foreign
languages require a certain calmness of spirit in me. I could remember
nothing but fine Italian oaths, and these he doubtless took to mean that
I wished him to win. And win we did by a neck as we came to the _dazio
consume_, the _octroi_ post outside Formia. And below me I saw Formia's
lights, at the foot of the hill, and the Bay