The fair Venetian shuddered as she heard these tales.  The landlord, like a true story-teller, doubled the dose when he saw how it operated.  He was just proceeding to relate the misfortunes of a great English lord and his family, when the Englishman, tired of his volubility, testily interrupted him, and pronounced these accounts mere traveller’s tales, or the exaggerations of peasants and innkeepers.  The landlord was indignant at the doubt levelled at his stories, and the innuendo levelled at his cloth; he cited half a dozen stories still more terrible, to corroborate those he had already told.

“I don’t believe a word of them,” said the Englishman.

“But the robbers had been tried and executed.”

“All a farce!”

“But their heads were stuck up along the road.”

“Old skulls accumulated during a century.”

The landlord muttered to himself as he went out at the door, “San Genaro, come sono singolari questi Inglesi.”

A fresh hubbub outside of the inn announced the arrival of more travellers; and from the variety of voices, or rather clamors, the clattering of horses’ hoofs, the rattling of wheels, and the general uproar both within and without, the arrival seemed to be numerous.  It was, in fact, the procaccio, and its convoy—­a kind of caravan of merchandise, that sets out on stated days, under an escort of soldiery to protect it from the robbers.  Travellers avail themselves of the occasion, and many carriages accompany the procaccio.  It was a long time before either landlord or waiter returned, being hurried away by the tempest of new custom.  When mine host appeared, there was a smile of triumph on his countenance.—­“Perhaps,” said he, as he cleared away the table, “perhaps the signor has not heard of what has happened.”

“What?” said the Englishman, drily.

“Oh, the procaccio has arrived, and has brought accounts of fresh exploits of the robbers, signor.”

“Pish!”

“There’s more news of the English Milor and his family,” said the host, emphatically.

“An English lord.-What English lord?”

“Milor Popkin.”

“Lord Popkin?  I never heard of such a title!”

“O Sicuro—­a great nobleman that passed through here lately with his Milady and daughters—­a magnifico—­one of the grand councillors of London—­un almanno.”

“Almanno—­almanno?—­tut! he means alderman.”

“Sicuro, aldermanno Popkin, and the principezza Popkin, and the signorina Popkin!” said mine host, triumphantly.  He would now have entered into a full detail, but was thwarted by the Englishman, who seemed determined not to credit or indulge him in his stories.  An Italian tongue, however, is not easily checked:  that of mine host continued to run on with increasing volubility as he conveyed the fragments of the repast out of the room, and the last that could be distinguished of his voice, as it died away along the corridor, was the constant recurrence of the favorite word Popkin—­Popkin—­Popkin—­pop—­pop—­pop.