I need scarcely describe the stazzu, as in the main it closely resembled other dwellings of the same kind. It was, however, quite of a superior class, and bore many evidences of rustic wealth and even luxury.

I really forget how many “segni,” or heads of cattle, this Leonardo was said to possess, but it was something after the manner of the patriarchs of old. He came up, beretta in hand, bowing profoundly, to meet us, bidding us welcome to his poor dwelling after a most elaborate fashion. He was a fine looking man, taller and with more colour than is to be found in the “Capo di Sotto,” or lower division, of the island, and with a remarkably long shaggy beard and unkempt head of bushy hair. A huge poignard was stuck in his richly embroidered belt, a berude, or lance, in his hand; altogether a formidable looking personage, bearing small appearance of following so peaceful a calling as that of shepherd.

Nevertheless, he spoke after a kind and cordial manner, and invited us with proud humility, to the shelter of his roof. Best, of course, being spokesman, went first, I following, through a large neat enclosure, or court, where a great number of horses were tied to rings in the wall, and were snorting and neighing, kicking and capering, after their most approved fashion.

On we went, past a heavy sort of verandah, lined with cork milking pails; and, finally, through the large general apartment, into an inner chamber swept and garnished for the occasion. And what a scene of novelty, brightness, and bustle, it presented.

Between twenty and thirty young maidens, in gala costume, the brilliant red and gold of which contrasted most favourably with their olive complexions, and glossy smoothly-braided hair, were sitting in a circle on the ground. They were, of course, laden with jewellery of excellent quality, but of heavy and rather rough manufacture, and each girl had a small bouquet of sweet scented flowers, mostly roses, in her waistband. A great heap of wool was in the midst of them, and this they were picking and teasing with quick and ready fingers.

Beyond these, seated on forms placed against the walls, and forming an outer circle, were the suitors or admirers of the damsels, one of whom at the moment we entered was playing a national air on that wonderfully antique piping instrument known as the lannedda. It was a pretty scene, much after the fashion of the American “bee.” These merry people had assembled to assist the shepherd’s wife to prepare her wool for the subsequent process of spinning and weaving into orbacci-the home-spun cloth of the country, and used entirely by both the upper and lower classes of peasantry.

There was a little lull in the work and a gaze of curious enquiry as we entered, which suddenly changed into a series of bright smiles of recognition as Best made his appearance, and “Serbiridos Signore” echoed on all sides.

Best looked very beaming and hand some. I thought, as he gracefully returned the salutation. His clear blue eyes and waving brown hair formed such a contrast with the dark skinned Sards. He seemed generally known, and had some little word or joke with most of them.

“Take care, Charley,” he said, addressing me, “mind you distribute your attentions pretty generally, for if, by chance, you should centre them in too marked a manner on any one of these gentle damsels you may chance to have one of those fierce daggers in your ribs. No people under the sun are so jealous as Sards; they beat Italians hollow, and that is saying much.”

The gay young wool-pickers made a jabbering mimicry of our language, so new to their ears. Then came a peal of laughter. The wife of the shepherd next made her appearance, all brilliant in smiles and gold ornaments, three shy little bronzed creatures hanging by her skirts, all intent on a good view of Bertoldo’s wonderful Milordi Inglesi.

By-and-by silence was restored, the launedda piped up again, and the wool-picking went on with redoubled vigour. At a given signal one of the maidens-a very pretty one, by the way, rose up, and, after some tittering and rustic coquetry, she took a queer looking guitar, called a cither, in her hand, played some tinkling sort of rondo; then bursting forth into a wild sort of recitative, she accompanied her voice by some simple but not discordant chords.

The words were soft and melodious, the girl’s voice rich and full. Her whole figure and “pose” graceful. Scarcely had she finished, when another, and again another in her turn took up the cadence until each one had contributed her quota to the general amusement, with more or less skill and grace. This done, the young girl who had first sung, whose name was Teresa, and who appeared to be the acknowledged belle of the party, again rose, and, advancing timidly, presented her bouquet to a pleasant looking young fellow, dressed in the garb of a husbandman (coltivatore), at the same time accompanying the gift with half a verse.

The young man bowed low as he took the nosegay from her hand, and completed the couplet. The beautiful Sard dialect-composed variously of Italian, Spanish, and, in some districts, even of Arabic and Latin-is very easily adapted to this sort of impromptu versification, and the vein of innate poetry is soon aroused in the Sard breast. As before, the other maidens each in her turn followed Teresa’s example, until all had presented their bouquets to their respective swains. The wool-picking meantime pro gressed rapidly. The full baskets of prepared wool were conveyed away; the heap was waning perceptibly.

Best set himself to work quite handily, and made a finish to a couplet, when the little daughter of the shepherd presented him with some splendid lilies of the valley.

But, amid all this apparent gaiety, a cloud hung on the spirits of the party. Teresa had many admirers-too many by half, so that her preference for a simple coltivatore aroused a pang of jealousy in more than one bosom; but chief among these discontents was one Ignazio, a fierce looking young bandit, who, being the eldest son of a very wealthy shepherd, could ill brook a rival, and most especially one of a condition beneath his own. He scowled darkly on the happy looking young Felice, who, holding the prized bouquet in his hand, was whispering soft nothings in the ear of the pretty Teresa.

“That fellow means mischief, I really believe,” whispered Best in English, “the sullen scowling wretch, no wonder the girl prefers yonder bright looking youth, Felice, who is about as handsome a looking fellow as one ever sees in Sardinia; but so it is-Ignazio is rich-it’s the old story; and I should never wonder if he were to lie in wait for his handsome rival, and just plant that glitter ing dagger of his in his heart some fine starlight evening. Oh! Campana is right; the laws here are wofully inefficient, and often cruelly unjust; so, until everything is really amended, there is little hope of peace and goodwill and that kind of thing.