"Cassiodorio! Ha, ha! Cassiodorio! Ha, ha, ha!" I asked him what he meant, and found that he was merely delighted to hear a stranger unexpectedly utter a name in familiar local use.

He ran out from the cave, and pointed up the valley; yonder was a fountain which bore the name "Fontana di Cassiodorio." (From my authors I knew of this; it may or may not have genuine historic interest.) Thereupon, I tried to discover whether any traditions hung to the name, but these informants had only a vague idea that Cassiodorus was a man of times long gone by.

How, they questioned in turn, did _I_ know anything about him?
Why, from books, I replied; among them books which the ancient himself had written more than a thousand years ago.

This was too much for the brigadiere; it moved him to stammered astonishment.

Did I mean to say that books written more than a thousand years ago still existed?
The jovial friend, good-naturedly scornful, cried out that of course they did, and added with triumphant air that they were not in the language of to-day but in _latino, latino_! All this came as a revelation to the other, who stared and marvelled, never taking his eyes from my face.