The group about the well now included almost every able-bodied person in
the village, and several of the cripples, who cried out if any pushed
upon them. Into the midst of this inward-bent circle of heads the
village priest elbowed his way, a short and rotund father, with a frown
on his face which evidently had no right there.

"Story-tellers!" he exclaimed. "There is no need for such in my village.
We grow our own. Thou, Beppo, art enough for a municipality, and thou,
Andrea. But what have we here?"

He paused open-mouthed. He had expected the usual whining, mumping
beggar; and lo, here were two well-attired _forestieri_ with their packs
on their backs and their hats upon their heads. But we stood up, and in
due form saluted the father, keeping our hats in our hands till he,
pleased at this recognition and deference before his flock, signed to us
courteously to put them on again.

After this, nothing would do but we must go with him to his house and
share with him a bottle of the noble wine of Montepulciano.

"It is the wine of my brother, who is there in the cure of souls," he
said. "Ah, he is a judge of wine, my brother. It is a fine place, not
like this beast of a village, inhabited by bad heretics and worse
Catholics."

"Bad Protestants--who are they?" I said, for I had been reared in the
belief that all Protestants were good--except, perhaps, they were
English Episcopalians. Specially all Protestants in the lands of Rome
were good by nature.