An enormous bunch of green ferns had been hung by a long string from the highest beam to attract the flies, which swarmed on it like bees on a branch.

The floor was of beaten cement, well swept and watered.

Along three of the walls there were heavy tables of rough-hewn oak, with benches, polished by long and constant use.

A trap-door covered the steps that led down to the deep cellar, which was nothing but a branch of those unexplored catacombs that undermine the Campagna in all directions.

The place was dim, smoky, and old, but it was not really dirty, for in his primitive way the Roman wine-carter is fastidious.