“It is the hour for my supper,” he said.  “I shall esteem it an honor if you will break bread with me.”  Derby was about to decline, thinking it better to return later, but the manner of the old man left no doubt as to the genuineness of his invitation, and Derby accepted.  In the adjoining room a small table was set with very few utensils.  Two plates, two forks, two spoons, a cup, and a wine glass apiece—­that was all.  After the blessing, they were served a frugal meal of bread and goats’ milk, a pudding of macaroni, and a plate of figs; there was also wine, acid and thin, which the good Marianna—­for so the housekeeper was called—­had doubtless pressed herself.

Her son Teobaldo, who waited at table, was dressed in some semblance of a livery—­black broadcloth and a white tie.  The archbishop ate sparingly—­he drank a little of the milk, and tasted a piece of fruit, but his conversation with his guest seemed to satisfy him far more than food could do.

Full of the hope of relief for his people, he now turned to plans for the Signore Americano’s protection.  Throughout the mountains, the hard life had made a hard people, he said, and unfriendly to foreigners.  What could they expect from the hands of strangers when their own nobility, even their priests, were powerless to help!  But the Signore should be put under the guidance of Padre Filippo—­and also there should be two carabinieri for protection.  Besides, Padre Filippo would recommend carpenters and mechanics of Vencata Minore—­the village nearest the “Little Devil”—­good men and honest, who would help in the work.

The meal ended, they returned to the living room.  The old woman fussed at the wick of the lamp and then placed a book close to the light and opened it at the page marked by a bit of paper.  The archbishop smiled.  “She takes good care of me, my Marianna.  Once she lost my place, but she is very careful.”

Derby looked at the page beneath the flickering dimness.  “Does Your Eminence read by this light?”

“Oh, yes, a little.  By day I can see nearly as well as ever, but in the evening I can read only the books that have large print—­and only for a little time.  But what would you have, Signore?  My eyesight may not any longer be like that of a boy.”  Then he added:  “The good sun brings now each day a longer time to read, and perhaps by the time another winter makes the days again grow short, I shall be near the Great Light that knows no setting.”

“You might have a good lamp and see very well,” suggested Derby.

“A lamp?  But in this I burn olive oil.  It is very good oil, Signore—­no one makes it better than Marianna!  The reading at night is only for young eyes.”  Again he smiled.

With difficulty he wrote a letter of direction to Padre Filippo and affixed his seal.  Also he promised that two carabinieri should be at the inn at eight o’clock on the following morning, to accompany the expedition to the mines.  And they should carry a letter to Donna Marcella—­in her house the Americans had better lodge.  From there they could with ease go each day on muleback to the “Little Devil.”