swords and cocked hats, and moustaches _a l'Abd el Kader,_ as we used
to say in the old days; these four, the two gendarmes and two
policemen, sat down opposite me on chairs and began cross-questioning
me in Italian, a language in which I was not proficient. I so far
understood them as to know that they were asking for my papers.

'Niente!' said I, and poured out on the table a card-case, a
sketch-book, two pencils, a bottle of wine, a cup, a piece of bread, a
scrap of French newspaper, an old _Secolo,_ a needle, some thread, and
a flute--but no passport.

They looked in the card-case and found 73 lira; that is, not quite
three pounds. They examined the sketch-book critically, as behoved
southerners who are mostly of an artistic bent: but they found no
passport. They questioned me again, and as I picked about for words to
reply, the smaller (the policeman, a man with a face like a fox)
shouted that he had heard me speaking Italian _currently_ in the inn,
and that my hesitation was a blind.

This lie so annoyed me that I said angrily in French (which I made as
southern as possible to suit them):

'You lie: and you can be punished for such lies, since you are an
official.' For though the police are the same in all countries, and
will swear black is white, and destroy men for a song, yet where there
is a _droit administratif-_ that is, where the Revolution has made
things tolerable--you are much surer of punishing your policeman, and
he is much less able to do you a damage than in England or America;
for he counts as an official and is under a more public discipline and
responsibility if he exceeds his powers.

Then I added, speaking distinctly, 'I can speak French and Latin. Have
you a priest in Calestano, and does he know Latin?'

This was a fine touch. They winced, and parried it by saying that the
Sindaco knew French. Then they led me away to their barracks while
they fetched the Sindaco, and so I was imprisoned.

But not for long. Very soon I was again following up the street, and
we came to the house of the Sindaco or Mayor. There he was, an old man
with white hair, God bless him, playing cards with his son and
daughter. To him therefore, as understanding French, I was bidden
address myself. I told him in clear and exact idiom that his policemen
were fools, that his town was a rabbit-warren, and his prison the only
cleanly thing in it; that half-a-dozen telegrams to places I could
indicate would show where I