his pony till the unfortunate animal plunged and reared with pain and fury, rattled off down the road at such a break-neck speed that I saw nothing but a whirling blot of wheels disappearing in the distance.  I was amused at the absurdity of this man’s terror.  What did he take me for, I wondered?  A ghost or a brigand?  I ate my grapes leisurely as I walked along—­they were deliciously cool and refreshing—­food and wine in one.  I met several other persons as I neared the city, market people and venders of ices—­but they took no note of me—­in fact, I avoided them all as much as possible.  On reaching the surburbs I turned into the first street I saw that seemed likely to contain a few shops.  It was close and dark and foul-smelling, but I had not gone far down it when I came upon the sort of place I sought—­a wretched tumble-down hovel, with a partly broken window, through which a shabby array of second-hand garments were to be dimly perceived, strung up for show on pieces of coarse twine.  It was one of those dirty dens where sailors, returning from long voyages, frequently go to dispose of the various trifles they have picked up in foreign countries, so that among the forlorn specimens of second-hand wearing apparel many quaint and curious objects were to be seen, such as shells, branches of rough coral, strings of beads, cups and dishes carved out of cocoa-nut, dried gourds, horns of animals, fans, stuffed parakeets, and old coins—­while a grotesque wooden idol peered hideously forth from between the stretched-out portions of a pair of old nankeen trousers, as though surveying the miscellaneous collection in idiotic amazement.  An aged man sat smoking at the open door of this promising habitation—­a true specimen of a Neapolitan grown old.  The skin of his face was like a piece of brown parchment scored all over with deep furrows and wrinkles, as though Time, disapproving of the history he had himself penned upon it, had scratched over and blotted out all records, so that no one should henceforth be able to read what had once been clear writing.  The only animation left in him seemed to have concentrated itself in his eyes, which were black and bead-like, and roved hither and thither with a glance of ever-restless and ever-suspicious inquiry.  He saw me coming toward him, but he pretended to be absorbed in a profound study of the patch of blue sky that gleamed between the closely leaning houses of the narrow street.  I accosted him—­and he brought his gaze swiftly down to my level, and stared at me with keen inquisitiveness.

“I have had a long tramp,” I said, briefly, for he was not the kind of man to whom I could explain my recent terrible adventure, “and I have lost some of my clothes by an accident on the way.  Can you sell me a suit?  Anything will do—­I am not particular.”

The old man took his pipe from his mouth.

“Do you fear the plague?” he asked.

“I have just recovered from an attack of it,” I replied, coolly.