n curiosity.
Stay, at least, they did, and thus rounded their experience of the
revolutionary year. On Sunday, April 1, Fleeming and the Captain went
for a ramble beyond the walls, leaving Aunt Anna and Mrs. Jenkin to
walk on the bastions with some friends. On the way back, this party
turned aside to rest in the Church of the Madonna delle Grazie. "We had
remarked," writes Mrs. Jenkin, "the entire absence of sentinels on the
ramparts, and how the cannons were left in solitary state; and I had
just remarked 'How quiet everything is!' when suddenly we heard the
drums begin to beat, and distant shouts. _Accustomed as we are_ to
revolutions, we never thought of being frightened." For all that, they
resumed their return home. On the way they saw men running and
vociferating, but nothing to indicate a general disturbance, until, near
the Duke's palace, they came upon and passed a shouting mob dragging
along with it three cannon. It had scarcely passed before they heard "a
rushing sound"; one of the gentlemen thrust back the party of ladies
under a shed, and the mob passed again. A fine-looking young man was in
their hands; and Mrs. Jenkin saw him with his mouth open as if he sought
to speak, saw him tossed from one to another like a ball, and then saw
him no more. "He was dead a few instants after, but the crowd hid that
terror from us. My knees shook under me and my sight left me." With this
street tragedy the curtain rose upon the second revolution.

The attack on Spirito Santo and the capitulation and departure of the
troops speedily followed. Genoa was in the hands of the Republicans, and
now came a time when the English residents were in a position to pay
some return for hospitality received. Nor were they backward. Our Consul
(the same who had the benefit of correction from Fleeming) carried the
Intendente on board the _Vengeance_, escorting him through the streets,
getting along with him on board a shore boat, and when the insurgents
levelled their muskets, standing up and naming himself "_Console
Inglese_." A friend of the Jenkins, Captain Glynne, had a more painful,
if a less dramatic part. One Colonel Nosozzo had been killed (I read)
while trying to prevent his own artillery from firing on the mob; but
in that hell's caldron of a distracted city, there were no distinctions
made, and the Colonel's widow was hunted for her life. In her grief and
peril, the Glynnes received and hid her; Captain Glynne sought and found