The portiere and the padrone, or landlord—­the latter being also the proprietaire—­came out to greet them, extending to their guests a courteous welcome.  The house was very full.  All of the cheaper rooms were taken; but of course the Signor Americain would wish only the best and be glad to pay.

Uncle John requested them to rob him as modestly as possible without conflicting with their sense of duty, and they assured him they would do so.

The rooms were adorable.  They faced the sea and had little balconies that gave one a view of the blue Mediterranean far beneath, with lovely Isola Bella and the Capo San Andrea nestling on its bosom.  To the right towered the majestic peak of Etna, its crest just now golden red in the dying sunset.

The girls drew in deep breaths and stood silent in a very ecstacy of delight.  At their feet was a terraced garden, running downward two hundred feet to where the crag fell sheer to the sea.  It was glorious with blooming flowers of every sort that grows, and the people on the balconies imagined at the moment they had been transferred to an earthly paradise too fair and sweet for ordinary mortals.  And then the glow of the sun faded softly and twilight took its place.  Far down the winding road could be seen the train of carriages returning from the station, the vetturini singing their native songs as the horses slowly ascended the slope.  An unseen organ somewhere in the distance ground out a Neapolitan folk song, and fresh and youthful voices sang a clear, high toned accompaniment.

Even practical Uncle John stood absorbed and admiring until the soft voice of the facchino called to ask if he wanted hot water in which to bathe before dinner.

“It’s no use,” said Patsy, smiling at him from the next balcony with tears in her eyes; “There’s not another Taormina on earth.  Here we are, and here we stay until we have to go home again.”

“But, my dear, think of Paris, of Venice, of—­”

“I’ll think of nothing but this, Uncle John.  Unless you settle down with us here I’ll turn milkmaid and live all my days in Sicily!”

Beth laughed, and drew her into their room.

“Don’t be silly, Patsy dear,” she said, calmly, although almost as greatly affected as her cousin.  “There are no cows here, so you can’t be a milkmaid.”

“Can’t I milk the goats, then?”

“Why, the men seem to do that, dear.  But cheer up.  We’ve only seen the romance of Taormina yet; doubtless it will be commonplace enough to-morrow.”

CHAPTER XIII

IL DUCA

Beth’s prediction, however, did not come true.  The morning discovered nothing commonplace about Taormina.  Their hotel was outside the walls, but a brief walk took them to the Messina Gate, a quaint archway through which they passed into the narrow streets of one of the oldest towns in Sicily.  Doorways and windows of Saracen or Norman construction faced them on every side, and every inch of the ancient buildings was picturesque and charming.