deserted streets echoed about every five
minutes to the screech-bang of an Austrian _arrive_ or the
bang-screech of an Italian _depart_.

Finding that the big Hotel du Parc, which is the city's leading
hostelry, was closed, we lunched at the more modest Hotel de la Poste.
Our luncheon was served us in the kitchen, as, shortly before our
arrival, the dining-room had been wrecked by an Austrian shell. Though
this had naturally somewhat upset things, we had a really excellent
meal: _minestrone_, which, so far as I could discover, is the only
variety of soup known to the Italians, mutton, vegetables, a pudding,
fruit, the best coffee I have had in Europe since the war began, and a
bottle of fine old Austrian wine, which, like the German vintages, is
no longer procurable in the restaurants of _civilized_ Europe. While
we ate, there was a brisk exchange of compliments between the Italian
and Austrian batteries in progress above the roofs of the town. The
table at which we sat was pushed close up against one of the thick
masonry columns which supported the kitchen ceiling. It probably would
not have been much of a protection had a shell chanced to drop in on
us, but it was wonderfully comforting.

I was accompanied on my visit to Gorizia by Signor Ugo Ojetti, the
noted Florentine connoisseur who has been charged with the
preservation of all the historical monuments and works of art in the
war zone. About this charming and cultured gentleman I was told a
characteristic story. In the outskirts of Gorizia stands the chateau
of an Austrian nobleman who was the possessor of a famous collection
of paintings. Now it is Signor Ojetti's business to save from injury
or destruction all works of art which are worth saving, and, after
ticketing and cataloguing them, to ship them to a place of safety to
be kept until the war is over, when they will be restored to their
respective owners. Though the chateau in question was within the
Italian lines, the windows of the ballroom, in which hung the best of
the pictures, were within easy range of the Austrian snipers, who,
whenever they saw any one moving about inside, would promptly open a
brisk rifle fire. Scarcely had Ojetti and his assistant set foot
within the room when _ping_ came an Austrian bullet through the
window, shattering the crystal chandelier over their heads. Then was
presented the extraordinary spectacle of the greatest art critic in
Italy crawling on hands and knees over a b