The long rumble of the train died away, and there followed silence absolute, scarcely broken for a few minutes by a peasant singing in the distance, the wailing song so often heard in the south of Italy.
Silence that was something more than the wonted soundlessness of night; the haunting oblivion of a time long past, a melancholy brooding voiceless upon the desolate home of forgotten generations.
A walk of ten minutes, and there shone light from windows.

The lad ran forward and turned in at the gate of a garden; Mallard followed, and approached some persons who were standing at an open door.

He speedily made arrangements for his night's lodging, saw his room, and went to the quarter of the inn where dinner was already in progress.

This was a building to itself, at one side of the garden.

Through the doorway he stepped immediately into a low-roofed hall, where a number of persons sat at table.