knew a man with a mule--two mules--he would send him round, if possible.

Quite a feature in the landscape of Morano is the costume of the women,
with their home-dyed red skirts and ribbons of the same hue plaited into
their hair. It is a beautiful and reposeful shade of red, between
Pompeian and brick-colour, and the tint very closely resembles that of
the cloth worn by the beduin (married) women of Tunisia. Maybe it was
introduced by the Saracens. And it is they, I imagine, who imported that
love of red peppers (a favourite dish with most Orientals) which is
peculiar to these parts, where they eat them voraciously in every form,
particularly in that of red sausages seasoned with these fiery condiments.

The whole country is full of Saracen memories. The name of Morano, they
say, is derived from _moro,_ [Footnote: This is all wrong, of course.
And equally wrong is the derivation from _moral,_ a mulberry--abundant
as these trees are. And more wrong still, if possible, is that which is
drawn from a saying of the mysterious Oenotrians--that useful
tribe--who, wandering in search of homesteads across these regions and
observing their beauty, are supposed to have remarked: _Hic moremur--_
here let us stay! Morano (strange to say) is simply the Roman Muranum.]
a Moor; and in its little piazza--an irregular and picturesque spot,
shaded by a few grand old elms amid the sound of running waters--there
is a sculptured head of a Moor inserted into the wall, commemorative, I
was told, of some ancient anti-Saracen exploit. It is the escutcheon of
the town. This Moor wears a red fez, and his features are painted black
(this is _de rigueur,_ for "Saracens "); he bears the legend _Vivit
sub arbore morus._ Near at hand, too, lies the prosperous village
Saracena, celebrated of old for its muscatel wines. They are made from
the grape which the Saracens brought over from Maskat, and planted all
over Sicily. [Footnote: See next chapter.]