He passed through the long _grotta_ of Posillipo, gloomy, chilly, and dank; then out again into the sunshine, and along the road to Bagnoli.

On walls and stone-heaps the little lizards darted about, innumerable; in vineyards men were at work dismantling the vine-props, often singing at their task.

From Bagnoli, still walking merely that a movement of his limbs might accompany his busy thoughts, he went along by the seashore, and so at length, still long before midday, had come to Pozzuoli.

A sharp conflict with the swarm of guides who beset the entrance to the town, and again he escaped into quietness, wandered among narrow streets, between blue, red, and yellow houses, stopping at times to look at some sunny upper window hung about with clusters of _sorbe_ and _pomidori_.

By this time he had won appetite for a more substantial meal.