Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/1004

932 There on the horizon, creeping up out of the sea like the great lion of Gibraltar, was an island! As the little train rattled into Terranova, I leaned far out of the window and called to the guard. "Conduttore," I cried, "quell' isola, il nome?"

"Tavolara, signore, con permesso."

I thought the whole town had come down to meet me, but it turned out to be the deaf gentleman who had slipped into the last carriage. He was received with a salute by the soldiers and a stony-stare by the populace. They reminded me of well and ill trained supers—indeed, the whole scene was like the setting of a play, with Tavolara painted on the back drop. Now to go behind the scenery!

Terranova was a miserable collection of aimless buildings, one of which was the hotel. Apparently the only guests were the hens, and they were everywhere except on the spit. They sat around me in a circle begging for food during my breakfast, quite unmolested by the landlord, and reminding me of a pack of feathered hounds.

Not counting the chickens, it is a very simple matter to establish a "following" in Sardinia. A following in the strict sense of the word, not to be confused with those peoples who show a preference for individuals of the church and stage. At the first whisper of Tavolara, old men and maidens sprang up like magic, children raced before me, and ancient crones hobbled in the rear. Before I had reached the water's edge, I was accosted, appropriated, and from that time exclusively controlled by a gentleman of fortune, who may be likened to a valet de place for want of a more vindictive epithet. There were no new, strange words in my red dictionary sufficiently insulting to drive him away, money was not a factor, he yearned for the privilege of carrying my sketching outfit, and for giving orders, obsequiously to me, and imperiously to the "following." He arranged with two oarsmen, not at all lusty in appearance, but full of unsuspected muscle, to row us the seven miles to the island at an exorbitant rate—for Italy. Upon protesting, I found it was the only boat to be had, all other craft having been spirited away—to reappear in the evening for a share in the "hold-up." I ascribed this cunning to my valet de place, and with a despairing effort to leave him behind, pushed off from the dock as he flung in my paraphernalia. But he seized the tiller, clambered over the sides, and with a triumphant "Ecco!" settled down beside me. Something like a faint cheer came from the "following" on the wharf, and, "Buon viaggio," called a pretty girl, in a very mocking tone. "Where to?" asked a fisherman from his barca. "Tavolara," answered my crew, shamefacedly. "Ho, ho! they have a passenger for Tavolara; a good voyage to you," laughed the fisherman, and the guards on the lighthouse took up the cry.

But Tavolara was no longer a laughing matter, nor was it an affair of canvas and paint and stage illusion; three miles out, the naked eye could find no nook for a goat, much less a king. One mile nearer, and there appeared half-way up the precipitous cliff a dead city, with