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with excellent goat-cheese and a glass of excellent
wine from the vineyard of the priest Don Dionisio,
her uncle, un vino meraviglioso. Besides there
was La Bella Margherita, of course I knew her
by name and that her aunt had married “un
lord inglese.” No, I did not, but I was most
anxious to know La Bella Margherita.
We reached at last the top of the seven-hundred
and seventy-seven steps, and passed through a
vaulted gate with the huge iron hinges of its
former draw-bridge still fastened to the rock.
We were in Anacapri. The whole bay of Naples
lay at our feet encircled by Ischia, Procida, the
pine-clad Posilipo, the glittering white line of
Naples, Vesuvius with its rosy cloud of smoke,
the Sorrento plain sheltered under Monte
Sant’Angelo and further away the Apennine
mountains, still covered with snow. Just over our
heads, riveted to the steep rock like an eagle’s
nest, stood a little ruined chapel. Its vaulted
roof had fallen in, but huge blocks of masonry
shaped into an unknown pattern of symmetrical
network, still supported its crumbling walls.
“Roba di Timberio,” explained old Maria.
“What is the name of the little chapel?” I
asked eagerly.
“San Michele.”
“San Michele, San Michele!” echoed in my
heart. In the vineyard below the chapel stood
an old man digging deep furrows in the soil for
the new vines. “Buon giorno, Mastro
Vincenzo!” The vineyard was his and so was the
little house close by, he had built it all with his
own hands, mostly with stones and bricks of the
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