f Mr. Merrick's business friends in New York, hearing of his
proposed trip, had given him letters of introduction to people in
various European cities. He had accepted them--quite a bunch,
altogether--but had firmly resolved not to use them. Neither he nor the
nieces cared to make superficial acquaintances during their wanderings.
Yet Uncle John chanced to remember that one of these letters was to a
certain Colonel Angeli of the Twelfth Italian Regiment, occupying the
barracks on the Pizzofalcone hill at Naples. This introduction, tendered
by a relative of the Colonel's American wife, was now reposing in Mr.
Merrick's pocket, and he promptly decided to make use of it in order to
obtain expert advice as to the wisdom of remaining in the stricken city.

Enquiring his way from the still dazed concierge, he found that the
Pizzofalcone barracks were just behind the hotel but several hundred
feet above it; so he turned up the Strada St. Lucia and soon came upon
the narrow lane that wound upward to the fortifications. It was a long
and tedious climb in the semi-darkness caused by the steady fall of
ashes, and at intervals the detonations from Vesuvius shook the huge
rock and made its massive bulk seem insecure. But the little man
persevered, and finally with sweating brow arrived at the barracks.

A soldier carried in the letter to his colonel and presently returned to
usher Uncle John through the vast building, up a flight of steps, and so
to a large covered balcony suspended many hundred feet above the Via
Partenope, where the hotel was situated.

Here was seated a group of officers, watching intently the cloud that
marked the location of the volcano. Colonel Angeli, big and bluff, his
uniform gorgeous, his dark, heavy moustaches carefully waxed, his
handsome face as ingenuous and merry as a schoolboy's, greeted the
American with a gracious courtesy that made Uncle John feel quite at
his ease. When he heard of the nieces the Italian made a grimace and
then laughed.

"I am despairing, signore," said he, in English sufficiently
strangulated to be amusing but nevertheless quite comprehensible, "that
you and the sweet signorini are to see our lovely Naples under
tribulations so very great. But yesterday, in all the world is no city
so enchanting, so brilliant, so gay. To-day--look! is it not horrible?
Vesuvio is sick, and Naples mourns until the tyrant is well again."

"But the danger," said Uncle John. "What do you think of