Besides his own men he had with him the muleteer who acted as guide and
interpreter, and without whom it was impossible for a foreigner to
travel in Italy. The peasant bowed to the ground, and led Gilbert to
the entrance of the hut where he usually served his customers with food
and drink, and in the gloom within Gilbert saw a rough-hewn table and
two benches standing upon the well-swept floor of beaten earth. But the
Englishman made signs that he would sit outside, and the scanty
furniture was brought out into the open air. The third hut was a refuge
and a sleeping-place for travellers overtaken at nightfall on their way
to the city.
"The monk is asleep," said the peasant host, lifting his finger to his
lips because Gilbert's men were talking loud near the entrance.
Gilbert understood as much as that without his interpreter; for in
those days the Provencal tongue was an accomplishment of all well-born
persons, and it was not unlike certain dialects of Italy.
"A monk?" repeated Gilbert, indifferently.
"He calls himself one, and he wears a grey frock," answered the other.
"But we are glad when he comes, for he brings us good fortune. And you
may see that I speak the truth, since he came late in the night, and
your lordship is the first guest at the huts this morning."
"Then you know him well?"
"Every one knows him," answered the man.
He turned, and Gilbert saw him lift up a hurdle of branches and
disappear underground. His cellar was deep and cool, one of the many
caverns which communicate with the catacombs and riddle the Campagna
from Rome to the hills.
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