Whilst we were thus enjoying the sweets of repose a child appeared out of a grove of olive trees.
“Ah!” I cried, “here is an inhabitant of this happy land!”
It was but a poor boy, miserably ill-clad, a sufferer from poverty, and our aspect seemed to alarm him a great deal; in fact, only half clothed, with ragged hair and beards, we were a suspicious-looking party; and if the people of the country knew anything about thieves, we were very likely to frighten them.
Just as the poor little wretch was going to take to his heels, Hans caught hold of him, and brought him to us, kicking and struggling.
My uncle began to encourage him as well as he could, and said to him in good German:
“ Was heißt diesen Berg, mein Knablein? Sage mir geschwind! ”
(“What is this mountain called, my little friend?”)
The child made no answer.
“Very well,” said my uncle. “I infer that we are not in Germany.”
He put the same question in English.
We got no forwarder. I was a good deal puzzled.
“Is the child dumb?” cried the Professor, who, proud of his knowledge of many languages, now tried French: “ Comment appelle t’on cette montagne, mon enfant? ”
Silence still.
“Now let us try Italian,” said my uncle; and he said: