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 coast-guard 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 the sea-wall always to the same height. The hills all around
were inky black and weary.

At night the wild libeccio still rose, with floods of rain and
lightning poured upon the waste. I thought of the Florentine patrol.
Is he out in it, and where?

At last there came a lull. When we rose on the fourth morning, the
sky was sulky, spent and sleepy after storm--the air as soft and tepid
as boiled milk or steaming flannel. We drove along the shore to Porto
Venere,