marvellous than beautiful, like so many Byzantine productions; their
value is such that the parchment has now been declared a "national
monument." It is sternly guarded, and if it is moved out of Rossano--as
happened lately when it was exhibited at Grottaferrata--it travels in
the company of armed carbineers.

Still pursued by the flock of women, I took to examining the floor of
this church, which contains tesselated marble pavements depicting
centaurs, unicorns, lions, stags, and other beasts. But my contemplation
of these choice relics was disturbed by irrelevant remarks on the part
of the worldly females, who discovered in the head of the stag some
subtle peculiarity that stirred their sense of humour.

"Look!" said one of them to her neighbour. "He has horns. Just like your
Pasquale."

"Pasquale indeed! And how about Antonio?"

I enquired whether they knew what kind of animals these were.

"Beasts of the ancients. Beasts that nobody knows. Beasts that have
horns--like certain Christians. . . ."

From the terrace of green sward that fronts this ruined monastery you
can see the little town of Corigliano, whose coquettish white houses lie
in a fold of the hills. Corigliano--[Greek: xorion __hellaion] (land of
olives): the derivation, if not correct, is at least appropriate, for it
lies embowered in a forest of these trees. A gay place it was, in
Bourbon times, with a ducal ruler of its own. Here, they say, the
remnants of the Sybarites took refuge after the destruction of their