Francesco was on patrol that night; but my
English accent soon assured him that I was no contrabbandiere, and he
too leaned against the stanchion and told me his short story. He was in
his nineteenth year, and came from Florence, where his people live in
the Borgo Ognissanti. He had all the brightness of the Tuscan folk, a
sort of innocent malice mixed with _espieglerie_. It was diverting to
see the airs he gave himself on the strength of his new military
dignity, his gun, and uniform, and night duty on the shore. I could not
help humming to myself _Non piu andrai_; for Francesco was a sort of
Tuscan Cherubino. We talked about picture galleries and libraries in
Florence, and I had to hear his favourite passages from the Italian
poets. And then there came the plots of Jules Verne's stories and
marvellous narrations about _l'uomo cavallo_, _l'uomo volante_, _l'uomo
pesce_. The last of these personages turned out to be Paolo Boynton (so
pronounced), who had swam the Arno in his diving dress, passing the
several bridges, and when he came to the great weir "allora tutti stare
con bocca aperta." Meanwhile the storm grew serious, and our conversation
changed. Francesco told me about the terrible sun-stricken sand shores of
the Riviera, burning in summer noon, over which the coastguard has to
tramp, their perils from falling stones in storm, and the trains that
come rushing from those narrow tunnels on the midnight line of march. It
is a hard life; and the thirst for adventure which drove this boy--il piu
matto di tutta la famiglia--to adopt it, seems well-nigh quenched. And
still, with a return to Giulio Verne, he talked enthusiastically of
deserting, of getting on board a merchant ship, and working his way to
southern islands where wonders are.

A furious blast swept the whole sky for a moment almost clear. The
moonlight fell, with racing cloud-shadows, upon sea and hills, the
lights of Lerici, the great _fanali_ at the entrance of the gulf, and
Francesco's upturned handsome face. Then all again was whirled in mist
and foam; one breaker smote the sea-wall in a surge of froth, another
plunged upon its heels; with inconceivable swiftness came rain;
lightning deluged the expanse of surf, and showed the windy trees bent
landward by the squall. It was long past midnight now, and the storm was
on us for the space of three days.

V.--PORTO VENERE.

For the next three days the wind went worrying on, and a line of surf
leapt on