e tailors be sent to me."

"It will be impossible to find anyone here capable of making anything
but a peasant's clothes."

"Send someone to Monteleone to fetch them from there."

The commander bowed and went out.

Murat was in his bath when the Lavaliere Alcala was announced, a General
and Governor of the town. He had sent damask coverlets, curtains, and
arm-chairs. Murat was touched by this attention, and it gave him fresh
composure. At two o'clock the same day General Nunziante arrived from
Santa-Tropea with three thousand men. Murat greeted his old acquaintance
with pleasure; but at the first word the king perceived that he was
before his judge, and that he had not come for the purpose of making a
visit, but to make an official inquiry.

Murat contented himself with stating that he had been on his way from
Corsica to Trieste with a passport from the Emperor of Austria when
stormy weather and lack of provisions had forced him to put into Pizzo.
All other questions Murat met with a stubborn silence; then at least,
wearied by his importunity--

"General," he said, "can you lend me some clothes after my bath?"

The general understood that he could expect no more information, and,
bowing to the king, he went out. Ten minutes later, a complete uniform
was brought to Murat; he put it on immediately, asked for a pen and ink,
wrote to the commander-in-chief of the Austrian troops at Naples, to the
English ambassador, and to his wife, to tell them of his detention at
Pizzo. These letters written, he got up and paced his room for some time
in evident agitation; at last, needing fresh air, he opened the window.
There was a view of the very beach where he had been captured.

Two men were digging a hole in the sand at the foot of the little
redoubt. Murat watched them mechanically. When the two men had finished,
they went into a neighbouring house and soon came out, bearing a corpse
in their arms.

The king searched his memory, and indeed it seemed to him that in the
midst of that terrible scene he had seen someone fall, but who it was he
no longer remembered. The corpse was quite without covering, but by the
long black hair and youthful outlines the king recognised Campana, the
aide-decamp he had always loved best.

This scene, watched from a prison window in the twilight, this solitary
burial on the shore, in the sand, moved Murat more deeply than his own
fate. Great tears filled his eyes and fell silently down the l