At a wooded spot, somewhere between the villages of Scrofano and Andriano, a dog howled dismally, became excited, started to scratch furiously.
The master of the dog peered into a culvert at his foaming canine, started, peered more closely, drew back, crossed himself, exclaimed: Santa, Madre di Gesu Christo, rushed off for the Carabinieri.
To the spot swaggered three gorgeous Carabinieri, capes a-flowing, swords a-rattling, hearts a-thumping. Near the thicket their pace slowed down. Once the dog moaned, his master prayed fervently. Once the wind tipped the trees and they shivered; the sun hid...
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