So it was agreed that the friends should
embark without an hour's delay, making direct for
the nearest port in which a Marseilles steamer
was likely to be found.

CHAPTER LXXIII. HOMEWARD BOUND.

THAT fate is always adverse to a man in haste,
that nothing important in this world is ever to
be had at the precise moment when it is most
needed, that the train is certain to be half an
hour late or the watch ten minutes slow, when
every moment is more precious than gold and
one's whole being seems to be concentrated on the
one act of pushing forward—are facts which call
for no evidence beyond that which comes within
the circle of each man's experience.

In obedience, then, to what may be called the
Law of Hindrances, the Albula just missed the
steamer at Valetta by an hour and three-quarters.
Being told, however, that by running before the
wind to Messina without delay, they would be
certain to catch the French mail steam-packet
for Marseilles direct, the travellers crowded all
sail, and went on. Arrived at Messina, they
learned that their boat had started at noon, and
would not be due again till that day week.
There was now nothing for it but to go on to
Naples.

They then landed their Sicilian surgeon, whose
services were no longer needed, and again put to
sea.

But the wind was no longer directly in their
favour, and their progress was consequently so
much the slower. Tacking laboriously along the
Calabrian coast, they beheld all that wondrous
panorama unfold itself before them as they
passed. Pæstum, Amalfi, Salerno, Vesuvius,
and, at last, the glorious bay, with its sentinel
islets lying out to sea.

They landed at the Molo Grande. The white
flag of the Bourbon was flying from the twin
castles down beside the quays, from the arsenal,
and from the mastheads of the steam-frigates in
the harbour. There, pacing to and fro upon the
pier, were the Neapolitan sentries, with their
white-cross belts—those same cross-belts at
which Saxon and Castletowers fired so many
shots at Melazzo.

They soon found that the boat which they had
missed at Messina was, above all others, the one
which they should have taken. No other went
to Marseilles direct, and no other would go at
all for at least forty-eight hours, from the time
of their arrival in the harbour. It was now
Thursday morning, and the order of departure
was as follows: there was the boat of the
Messageries Impériales, which left Naples every
Tuesday at five P.M.; there was the boat of the
Two Sicilies Mail Steam Navigation
Company, which went every Wednesday at the
same hour; and there were two boats every
Saturday, besides the chance of a merchant-
steamer, which had no fixed dates for departure,
but was expected to be ready about that time.

But every one of these packets, without exception,
touched at Civita Vecchia, and some touched
not only at Civita Vecchia, but also at Genoa
and Leghorn.

In short, they could not possibly get off before
Saturday at noon, and even then must suffer loss
of time by putting in at the Papal port by the
way.

However, there was no help for it. Wait one
whole day and part of two others, they must;
so they determined to make the delay as pleasant
as possible, and the Earl undertook to show
Saxon all that could be seen of Naples in the
time.

How they rattled down to Pompeii by rail;
dined on the Chiaja; heard the "Barbière" at
the San Carlo; supped in the open air on the
terrace of the Albergo della Villa di Roma; ate
mattoni ices and maccaroni to their hearts'
content; and wandered on the Molo, watching the
red glow above Vesuvius long after those hours
at which more reasonable travellers are in their
beds—needs no recapitulation here.

To a stranger, the fair city seemed all careless
security, all mirth, all holiday. Who that knew
not every inflection of the popular voice, every
flash of the popular humour, could have guessed
that there was revolt at the heart of that shouting,
laughing, noisy crowd? Who would have
dreamed that the preacher holding forth in the
Largo del Mercato was only kept from preaching
the "movimento" by the sight of those
cross-belts scattered, as if by chance, among the
crowd? Or that the Canta Storia on the Molo,
chanting his monotonous stanzas to an eager
circle of boatmen and lazzaroni, was ready to
substitute the name of Garibaldi for that of
Rinaldo whenever the sentry was out of hearing?
Who would have supposed that in every coffee-
shop and trattoria, round every lemonade and
maccaroni stall, in front of every mountebank's
platform, and in the porch of every church, the
one prevailing, absorbing topic upon every lip
was the advance of the national army?

Yet so it was. Garibaldi had crossed from
Sicily, and landed in Calabria only a few days
before, and all Naples was boiling over with
hope and exultation. The wildest tales, the
most extravagant anticipations were afloat.
Every man whispered "Viva Garibaldi!" in his
neighbour's ear; but none had yet dared to give
voice to the popular watchword. In the mean
while, an irrepressible under-current of
revolutionary propagandism was beginning to agitate
the surface of Neapolitan life. Though not yet
apparent to the casual observer, this disposition
was perfectly understood by the Neapolitan
authorities, who were doing all in their power to
keep it down by means of the strong hand. The
guns of St. Elmo, the Castel Nuovo, and the
Castel dell' Ovo were pointed ominously upon
the town. Small bodies of military were
constantly perambulating the principal thoroughfares,
mingling in every crowd, and loitering
about the places of popular resort. Above all,