dor, aroused by the report of
brave deeds, is for a few moments held in abeyance by grief, and
then rekindled by the desire of vengeance. Hot blood is up, and the
prevailing feeling is a longing for a renewal of the fight. We are told,
if we wish to see an action, to go to "the front" to-morrow. Accordingly
we decide to be there.

The following day, our faithful _commissionnaire_, Antonio, places us
in a carriage drawn by a powerful pair of horses, and headed for the
Garibaldian camp. A hamper of provisions is not forgotten, and before
starting we cause Antonio to double the supplies: we have a presentiment
that we may find with whom to share them.

There are twelve miles before us to the nearest point in the camp, which
is Caserta. Our chief object being to see the hero of Italy, if we do
not find him at Caserta, we shall push on four miles farther, to Santa
Maria; and, missing him there, ride still another four miles to Sant'
Angelo, where rests the extreme right of the army over against Capua.

As we ride over the broad and level road from Naples to Caserta,
bordered with lines of trees through its entire length, we are surprised
to see not only husbandmen quietly tilling the fields, but laborers
engaged in public works upon the highway, as if in the employ of a long
established authority, and making it difficult to believe that we are
in the midst of civil war, and under a provisional government of a few
weeks' standing. But this and kindred wonders are fruits of the spell
wrought by Garibaldi, who wove the most discordant elements into
harmony, and made hostile factions work together for the common good,
for the sake of the love they bore to him.

About mid-day we arrive at a redoubt which covers a part of the road,
leaving barely enough space for one vehicle to pass. We are of course
stopped, but are courteously received by the officer of the guard.
We show our pass from General Turr, giving us permission "freely to
traverse all parts of the camp," and being told to drive on, find
ourselves within the lines. As we proceed, we see laborers busily
engaged throwing up breastworks, soldiers reposing beneath the trees,
and on every side the paraphernalia of war.

Garibaldi is not here, nor do we find him at Santa Maria. So we prolong
our ride to the twentieth mile by driving our reeking, but still
vigorous horses to Sant' Angelo.

We are now in sight of Capua, where Francis II. is shut up with a strong
garrison.