Late in September, when the nights were still
warm and fine enough to allow of one's enjoying
a cigar al fresco, I took the habit of going to
the Bottegone every evening. The Bottegone
is one of the most frequented cafes in Florence.
It is in a central part of the city, on the great
cathedral square, and in fine weather the pavement
before its door is thronged of an evening
with drinkers and smokers. For the Piazza del
Duomo enjoys the benefit of whatever breeze
may be stirring in the city. There is a legend,
to the effect that the Devil having made an
appointment to meet the wind there, stepped into
the cathedral on his way to the rendezvous,
having, says the irreverent fable, particular
business with some of the canons. The business
has detained the Devil ever since. And so, from
that day to this, the wind has been wandering
up and down on the piazza, vainly expecting to
find the Devil.

I was alone in Florence, idle and observant.
One young man among the many frequenters of
the Bottegone, I noticed for some weeks as a
regular visitor. He had a tall, slender, gentlemanlike
figure, bright dark southern eyes, and,
though dressed in plain clothes, clearly had the
bearing of a soldier. He always wore, pressed
somewhat low over his brows, a soft felt hat,
from which escaped on either side a luxuriant
mass of hair, thick and waving, and as blue-
black as the raven's wing. The old reason for
disliking Dr. Fell is quite as potent, on occasions,
for loving Dr. Fell; and, without being
able to account for it to myself, I felt a strong
attraction towards this young man. Our little
tables outside the café stood side by side, and
we naturally came to interchange small civilities,
such as the proffer of a fusee, the loan of a newspaper,
and so on. The first words I heard him
utter, betrayed, in their soft, sweet, lisping
accents, that he was a Venetian. This circumstance
heightened my interest in him, for the
sympathy then felt for Venice in Italy was
very deep, very tender, and very real.

He responded to my advances, and I came to
know him. His name was Angelo Bertani; he
was a captain in a regiment of the line, and had
distinguished himself at Solferino, where he had
received a flesh–wound in the thigh, on which
fever and ague had supervened.

His quarters, in Florence, were on a steep
bit of hill at the back of the Palazzo Pitti. The
first time I made him a visit there, was when
he had been laid up for some few days. As I
left the more frequented thoroughfares to mount
the ascent, a strange sad silence took possession
of the street. I might have been many miles
away from a crowded city. The moon looked
solemnly down on tall stone garden walls, and
on the dusky cypress-trees that overtopped them.
My measured footsteps echoed sharply on the
flagged way. There was no other sound,
except, at regular intervals, the peculiarly plaintive
short cry of a little chiù owl calling to its
mate. Arrived at the gate, I entered and
mounted a long outer flight of steps, partly
covered by arcades, to the first floor of a wide
rambling old palazzo. A soldierly man, with a
little brazen oil lamp in his hand, stepped out
of a doorway and looked at me.

"You are the servant of the Captain Angelo
Bertani?" said I.

"Yes, sir, I am Gabor," was the answer, in
good Italian, but with a strong foreign accent.

"How is the captain?"

"Not so well this evening, I fear, signor.
He has been much depressed all day."

The old soldier gave me a scrutinising glance,
and, seeming to be tolerably well satisfied with
his inspection, made a military salute, and
preceded me with his lamp along a stone corridor.

I experienced an inexplicable feeling as I
walked down the echoing passage. I had no
definite expectation; but I felt as though something
strange were infallibly about to happen.
Nothing at all strange did happen. I found
Bertani lying on a sofa in his lofty vaulted room,
with a shaded lamp on a little table at his back,
and before him the glorious panorama of
Florence, framed by the open window, and
touched with the broad chiar'oscuro of the
moonlight.

He received me more than graciously, with
somewhat of the warmth of an old acquaintance.
As such, indeed, he claimed me on the strength
of our frequent meetings at the Bottegone. He
looked haggard and suffering, but strikingly
handsome, with his pale Titianesque face and
black hair relieved by a Greek smoking–cap of
crimson silk. I noticed that he wore this cap,
as I had always seen him wear his felt hat, low
on his brow. ,

"We conversed freely. I asked if his wound
were worse? He replied, it was troublesome, but
nothing more, except that it reduced his strength
terribly, and—combined with many hardships
inseparable from his late service, poor food,
and not enough of that—caused his nervous
system to be much shaken by fever. He was
charmed to see me (he assured me several
times); he took my visit as a very great kindness;
he earnestly hoped that I would soon
repeat it; and he said, in the winning Italian
manner, that he found me very "simpatico,"
and I did him good.

Little faith as I had in my power to dispel any
nervous fancies by which the young Venetian's
mind might be secretly troubled, I was too much
interested in him not to avail myself most gladly of
the chance of improving our acquaintance. It was
not long, therefore, before I repeated my visit. I
was received with even more Cordiality than on
the first occasion, and speedily became the
intimate friend of Captain Angelo Bertani. Youth
forms its friendships rapidlv, and there was a
most engaging simplicity in Bertani's character.
As I came to know him better, I was struck
by the singular sweetness and serenity of his
temper and manner. I found him uniformly
placid and self–possessed. A tinge of melancholy
hung about him, but no gloom. And how
was it possible, I asked myself, for a patriotic
Venetian to be gay and cheerful, when his country
was cast back beneath the heel of the