of white and yellow—then, clashes of red
feathers or flowing flags lighted by swinging
lights—then a racing mob, widening, widening
to broad lines of stern white men, with
a bristling roof of bayonets, marching
defiantly, with that peculiar rigidity and stern
forward look that is so insulting and so self-
conscious—nearer, through clouds of dust,
nearer, with tramp even and measured, as of
one vast many-footed machine, tramp, tramp,
the one end of the half-mile, with feet rising as
the feet of the other half come to the ground,
the half-mile of white men moving on with a
strong vermicular motion, like that of some
white poisonous caterpillar escaped from a fat
flour-bin, and passing on to some more dangerous
form of existence—what a contrast to those gay
opera tunes and opera marches, the stern faces
under the bayonets lighted by fitful gleams of
lantern light; the scowling faces of the crushed-up
citizens who cower, driven up in doorways, to look!

I went home as the colonel took horse at the
door for his suburban barracks, and, just as the
procession faded away down a side street, playing
a beautiful fairy waltz by Strauss, I got my
key from the porter, undressed quickly, said a
short prayer for England, and threw myself under
my gauzy counterpane. I fell down into a dream
as into a well. I fancied myself in a cathedral,
strewn with kneeling Italians, bowed
before the cross under the coloured shade of
those giant windows of the Duomo. Suddenly
the priests threw off their cloth-of-gold robes
and appeared as Austrian generals, the chorister
boys with the censers were as quickly
transformed to drummers, muskets were handed over
from behind the great silver cross and jewelled
altar, and the slaughter began. The people rushed
to the doors; the bullets ploughed through them;
then a darkness rose, and a chilling, stifling dread
mingled with my dreams—a sense of rage, and
yet more of fear, of struggle, of dread and
apprehension. My heart beats so loud I can hear
nothing else—beat—beat—it pulses like a parchment
drum. It comes upon me—there are
drums somewhere below. The windows are open
—it is an early review. I look at my watch
on the table—just six. I rise—drums nearer,
throw back the green Venetian blinds—the sun
pours in as I look out over the balcony.
Austrian drums!—here they come! A great
shining slant of glistening bayonets and white
coats defile past. Drums, drums, drums!
vibrant and threatening—fainter—fainter—out of
sight—fainter.

I ring the bell; I hear my boots clumped
down outside, and call the waiter.

"What are these drums?"

"Austrian demonstration," he says, "signor
mio. Terrible news. General Hassenpflug was
found last night, at about eleven and a half,
just outside the Porta Vercellina, on the road
to his Vercelli villa, stark dead, shot through
the heart, and on the white vineyard wall, over
his battered head, was written by a bloody finger.
'VIVA L' ITALIA!'"—Immediately I thought
of those watchful eyes. I dressed, and thought.

When I came down stairs into the coffee-room,
I asked the waiter, who was tripping
about adjusting the breakfast-tables, if there were
any suspicion of the murderer, and if he knew
at what hour the murder was committed.

"They say, signor mio, that the murderer is
the brother of Luigi who was shot this morning
at six; I believe the body was found at a quarter-past
eleven."

I had left the caffè at ten.

It was last December, about Christmas-
time. I had plunged again into the vortex of
City business, and had almost forgotten Milan.
One night, when I returned to my country-house
near London, a policeman came to tell
me that a poor Italian musician had just been
found frozen to death in one of my field sheds.

I went with the policeman till we reached
the shed. He led me in, and, holding his bull's-eye
to the head of the dead man, showed me a
shrunk, worn face, that I recognised as
Giacomo's—the face I never could forget.

"And the curious thing which is, sir," said the
policeman, lighting me out again to the back of
the shed, "that we found him, as if asleep,
outside in the snow, just where I stand. He had
written some foreign words on the snow, that
you still may be able to read, if you know
foreign languages, for I took care not to draw the
corpse over them. Here, where my light is, sir."

I looked down and read——

"VIVA L'ITALIA!"

It was of course a mere coincidence the poor
man coming to my field to die, but still it was
strange—coincidences are strange. Viva L' Italia!
Poor fellow!

A NEW SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY.
FIVE PARTS.   PART THE LAST.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.

"WHO'S that says he doesn't believe in
presentiments?" said a dark, bony man, who was
sitting in a corner where I had hitherto not
observed him.

A young man seated opposite me answered
modestly that numberless instances in which he
had himself experienced forebodings which had
proved utterly groundless, had led him to be
less apprehensive when full of anticipation of
coming evil, than when an unusual gaiety was
upon him, as he had oftener noted this latter
sensation to be the forerunner of evil than the
former.

I dare say there are few persons who read
these pages who do not know what it is to be
involved in a conversation which bores them to
an excess, while some one is talking within
earshot upon some subject of extreme interest,
which it would be very pleasant to listen to.
Those who have passed through such an
experience will be ready to corroborate my statement
that the effect of listening and answering while
you are trying to catch what is going on
elsewhere, is a great and unpleasant one.

It was in this position that I now found
myself. The little man with the Morning Post