everence as the being possessed with a great sorrow. At
least no one can envy him; and so those who were his enemies once--like
the gallant Frenchman when he saw his adversary's empty sleeve--bring
their swords to the salute, and pass on.

At last we started for Rome, our party nearly filling two carriages.
There are only two ways of traveling: in your own carriage, with courier
and fourgon, like Russian or transatlantic noble, or with vetturino.
This last mode, which was ours, is scarcely less pleasant, if you are
not in a hurry. The charm of having, for a certain period, every care as
to ways and means off your mind, compensates for the six-miles-an-hour
pace. So we moved slowly southward through Verona, where one thinks more
of the Avon than the Adige--where, in tombs poised like Mohammed's
coffin, the mighty Scagliari sleep between earth and heaven, as if not
quite fit for either--where are the cypresses in the trim old garden,
soaring skyward till the eyes that follow grow dizzy, the trees that
were green and luxuriant years before the world was redeemed. So through
Mantua and Bologna down to Florence, where, I think, the spirits of
Catharine and Cosmo linger yet, the women and the men all so soft-toned,
and silky, and sinful, and cruel. We did not stay long there, for we had
all visited it before once or twice, but kept on our way, by the upper
road, to Rome, till we reached our last halting-place--Civita
Castellana.

We were gathered round the wood fire after dinner (for the October
evenings grew chilly as they closed in); I don't know how it was that
Forrester began telling us about their flight.

"You ought to have seen Bella's baggage," he said, at last; "it was so
compact. You can't fancy any thing so tiny as the _sac de nuit_. A
courier's moneybag would make two of it. Then a vast cloak, and that's
all. Quite in light marching order."

"I wonder you are not ashamed to talk about baggage," his wife retorted.
"When we got to Dover, there was his servant with four immense
portmanteaus and a dressing-case nearly as large, waiting for us. Was it
not romantic?"

"Bah!" Charley said. "A man must have his comforts, even if he is
eloping. I am sure I arranged every thing superbly. I don't know how I
did it--an undeveloped talent for intrigue, I suppose."

"Was it not kind of him to take so much trouble?" Isabel asked, quite
innocently, and in perfect good faith, I am sure; but her husband
pinched the little pi