ncholy charm) until we came to old fortified Treviso,
with its park, and the green river Dante knew, circling its high walls.

At Conegliano--where Cima lived--we ran into the town between its
guardian statues, gave a glance at the splendid old castle which must
have given the gentle painter many an inspiration, and then turned
eastward. There was a shorter way, but the route-book of the Italian
Touring Club which the Chauffeulier pinned his faith to in emergencies,
showed that the surface of the other road was not so good. Udine tried
to copy Venice in miniature, and I loved it for its ambition; but what
interested me the most was to hear from Mr. Barrymore how, on the spot
where its castle stands, Attila watched the burning of Aquileia. That
seemed to take me down to the roots of Venetian history; and I could
picture the panic-stricken fugitives flying to the lagoons, and
beginning to raise the wattled huts which have culminated in the queen
city of the sea. From Udine we went southward; and at the Austrian
custom house, across the frontier, we had to unroll yards of red tape
before we were allowed to pass. Almost at once, when we were over the
border, the scenery, the architecture, and even the people's faces,
changed; not gradually, but with extraordinary abruptness, or so it
seemed to me.

Just before dark we sailed into a great, busy town, with a surprising
number of enormous, absolutely useless-looking buildings. It was
Trieste, Austria's biggest port; and the Prince, who had kept near us
for the hundred and thirty miles from Venice, began to wear an air of
pride in his own country. He wanted us to admire the fine streets and
shops, and made us notice how everywhere were to be seen Greek, Russian,
Polish, French, German, Italian, and even English names. "That proves
what a great trade we do, and how all the world comes to us," he said.

Our hotel was close to the quay, and there were a thousand things of
interest to watch from the windows when we got up next morning, as there
always are in places where the world "goes down to the sea in ships."

At breakfast there was a discussion as to our route, which, owing to
suggestions and counter-suggestions from the Prince, hadn't been
decided. The Chauffeulier wanted to run through Istria and show us
Capodistria (another copy of Venice), Rovigno, and Pola, which he said
had not only a splendid Roman amphitheatre, but many other sights worth
making a detour for. I was