nd a corpulent straw-covered
flask of Chianti, their spirit was cheerful and their courage high.

"Why not?" asked the valiant Camembert. "Is it that the Italians are
more difficult to conquer than the French? Napoleon did it--my faith,
yes. Forward to the conquest of Italy!"

Richard was immensely amused. He did not really care which way they
went, as long as they went somewhere. His heart was full of a vague
hunger for home,--deep, wild, sheltering woods, friendly hills,
companionable and never-failing little rivers,--he longed to be there.
But he knew that was impossible. So why not Italy? It would certainly
be an adventure.

And so it was. But the conquest was largely a matter of imagination.
They saw the flowing green streets of Venice, the ruddy towers of
Bologna, the grey walls and dark dome of Florence. They saw the
fountains flash in Rome and the red fire run down the long slope of
Vesuvius at Naples. They crossed over to Sicily and saw ivory Palermo
in her golden shell and Taormina sitting high upon the benches of her
amphitheatre. In that sense they conquered and possessed Italy, as any
one who has eyes and a heart may do.

But Italy did not pay much tribute to their music. They had to travel
third-class and sleep in the poorest inns, cultivating a taste for
macaroni and dark bread with pallid butter. Still, they were merry
enough until they reached Genoa, and perceived that there was no
reasonable prospect of their being able to make anything at all in the
over-civilised and over-entertained towns of the Riviera.

"We must retreat, my children," said the Cheese, crinkling his face
over the sour wine in a musty _trattoria_, "but let us retreat in good
order and while we have the means to do so. How much money in bank?"

They counted their resources and found them hardly enough to pay the
railway fare to Bordeaux. Richard insisted upon putting the remnant of
his private fortune into the common fund, but the others would not
have it.

"No," they said, "you shall not give us money. But you may settle all
the restaurant bills between here and Bordeaux."

"But I am not going to Bordeaux," said he; "I am going to Paris."

At this there was voluble protest and discussion. Richard had no
arguments, but his determination was as fixed as it was unreasonable.
Finally he forced them to take fifty francs as a loan. At Lyons the
quintette dissolved with emotional embraces, the four going westward,
and he northwa