ed on with a few followers
to Naples, and others maintained that he had sent to the King of Naples
to meet him at Salerno to show him the inutility of all resistance, and
offer him a safe-conduct out of the kingdom. Leaving M'Caskey in the
midst of these talkers, and not, perhaps, without some uncharitable
wish that the gallant Colonel's bad tongue would involve him in serious
trouble, Skeffy slipped away to inquire after Tony.

Every one seemed to know that there was a brave _Irlandese_,--a daring
fellow who had shown himself in the thick of every fight; but the
discrepant accounts of his personal appearance and looks were most
confusing. Tony was fair-haired, and yet most of the descriptions
represented a dark man, with a bushy black beard and moustache. At all
events, he was lying wounded at the convent of the Cappuccini, on a hill
about a mile from the town; and Father Pantaleo--Garibaldi's Vicar, as
he was called--offered his services to show him the way. The Frate--a
talkative little fellow, with a fringe of curly dark-brown hair around
a polished white head--talked away, as they went, about the war, and
Garibaldi, and the grand future that lay before Italy, when the tyranny
of the Pope should be overthrown, and the Church made as free--and,
indeed, he almost said as easy--as any jovial Christian could desire.

Skeffy, by degrees, drew him to the subject nearest his own heart at the
moment, and asked about the wounded in hospital. The Frate declared that
there was nothing very serious the matter with any of them. He was an
optimist. Some died, some suffered amputations, some were torn by shells
or grape-shot. But what did it signify? as he said. It was a great cause
they were fighting for, and they all agreed it was a pleasure to shed
one's blood for Italy. "As for the life up there," said he, pointing
to the convent, "it is a _vita da Santi_,--the 'life of saints
themselves.'"

"Do you know my friend Tony the Irlandese?" asked Skeff, eagerly.

"If I know him! _Per Bacco!_ I think I know him. I was with him when he
had his leg taken off."

Skeff's heart sickened at this terrible news, and he could barely steady
himself by catching the Fra's arm. "Oh, my poor dear Tony," cried he, as
the tears ran down his face,--"my poor fellow!"

"Why did you pity him? Garibaldi gave him his own sword, and made him an
officer on the day of the battle. It was up at Calanzaro, so that he 's
nearly well now."

Skeff poured i