n innumerable questions,--how the mischance occurred, and
where; how he bore up under the dreadful operation; in what state he
then was; if able to move about, and how? And as the Fra was one of
those who never confessed himself unable to answer anything, the details
he obtained were certainly of the fullest and most circumstantial.

"He's always singing; that's how he passes his time," said the Frate.

"Singing! how strange! I never knew him to sing. I never heard him even
hum a tune."

"You 'll hear him now, then. The fellows about curse at him half the day
to be silent, but he does n't mind them, but sings away. The only quiet
moment he gives them is while he's smoking."

"Ah, yes! he loves smoking."

"There--stop. Listen. Do you hear him? he's at it now." Skeff halted,
and could hear the sound of a full deep voice, from a window overhead,
in one of those prolonged and melancholy cadences which Irish airs
abound in.

"Wherever he got such doleful music I can't tell, but he has a dozen
chants like that."

Though Skeff could not distinguish the sounds, nor recognize the voice
of his friend, the thought that it was poor Tony who was there singing
in his solitude, maimed and suffering, without one near to comfort him,
so overwhelmed him that he staggered towards a bench, and sat down sick
and faint.

"Go up and say that a friend, a dear friend, has come from Naples to
see him; and if he is not too nervous or too much agitated, tell him my
name; here it is." The friar took the card and hurried forward on his
mission. In less time than Skeff thought it possible for him to have
arrived, Pantaleo called out from the window, "Come along; he is quite
ready to see you, though he doesn't remember you."

Skeff fell back upon the seat at the last words. "Not remember me! my
poor Tony,--my poor, poor fellow,--how changed and shattered you must
be, to have forgotten me!" With a great effort he rallied, entered the
gate, and mounted the stairs,--slowly, indeed, and like one who dreaded
the scene that lay before him. Pantaleo met him at the top, and, seeing
his agitation, gave him his arm for support. "Don't be nervous," said
he, "your friend is doing capitally; he is out on the terrace in an
armchair, and looks as jolly as a cardinal."

Summoning all his courage, Skeflf walked bravely forwards, passed down
the long aisle, crowded with sick and wounded on either side, and passed
out upon a balcony at the end, where, with h