“Ah,” cried I, “an inhabitant of this happy country.”
The little fellow was poorly dressed, weak, and suffering, and appeared terribly alarmed at our appearance. Half-naked, with tangled, matted, and ragged beards, we did look supremely ill-favored; and unless the country was a bandit land, we were not unlikely to alarm the inhabitants!
Just as the boy was about to take to his heels, Hans ran after him, and brought him back, despite his cries and kicks.
My uncle tried to look as gentle as possible, and then spoke in German.
“What is the name of this mountain, my friend?”
The child made no reply.
“Good,” said my uncle, with a very positive air of conviction, “we are not in Germany.”
He then made the same demand in English, of which language he was an excellent scholar.
The child shook its head and made no reply. I began to be considerably puzzled.
“Is he dumb?” cried the Professor, who was rather proud of his polyglot knowledge of languages, and made the same demand in French.
The boy only stared in his face.
“I must perforce try him in Italian,” said my uncle, with a shrug.
“Dove noi siamo?”
“Yes, tell me where we are,” I added impatiently and eagerly.
Again the boy remained silent.
“My fine fellow, do you or do you not mean to speak?” cried my uncle, who began to get angry. He shook him, and spoke another dialect of the Italian language.
“Come si noma questa isola?”—”What is the name of this island?”
“Stromboli,” replied the rickety little shepherd, dashing away from Hans and disappearing in the olive groves.
We thought little enough about him.
Stromboli! What effect on the imagination did these few words produce! We were in the center of the Mediterranean, amidst the eastern archipelago of mythological memory, in the ancient Strongylos, where Æolus kept the wind and the tempest chained up. And those blue mountains, which rose toward the rising of the sun, were the mountains of Calabria.
And that mighty volcano which rose on the southern horizon was Etna, the fierce and celebrated Etna!
“Stromboli! Stromboli!” I repeated to myself.
My uncle played a regular accompaniment to my gestures and words. We were singing together like an ancient chorus.
Ah—what a journey—what a marvelous and extraordinary journey! Here we had entered the earth by one volcano, and we had come out by another. And this other was situated more than twelve hundred leagues from Sneffels, from that drear country of Iceland cast away on the confines of the earth. The wondrous chances of this expedition had transported us to the most harmonious and beautiful of earthly lands. We had abandoned the region of eternal snows for that of infinite verdure, and had left over our heads the gray fog of the icy regions to come back to the azure sky of Sicily!
After a delicious repast of fruits and fresh water, we again continued our journey in order to reach the port of Stromboli. To say how we had reached the island would scarcely have been prudent. The superstitious character of the Italians would have been at work, and we should have been called demons vomited from the infernal regions. It was therefore necessary to pass for humble and unfortunate shipwrecked travelers. It was certainly less striking and romantic, but it was decidedly safer.
As we advanced, I could hear my worthy uncle muttering to himself:
“But the compass. The compass most certainly marked north. This is a fact I cannot explain in any way.”
“Well, the fact is,” said I, with an air of disdain, “we must not explain anything. It will be much more easy.”
“I should like to see a professor of the Johanneum Institution who is unable to explain a cosmic phenomenon—it would indeed be strange.”
And speaking thus, my uncle, half naked, his leathern purse around his loins, and his spectacles upon his nose, became once more the terrible Professor of Mineralogy.
An hour after leaving the wood of olives, we reached the fort of San Vicenza, where Hans demanded the price of his thirteenth week of service. My uncle paid him, with very many warm shakes of the hand.