The night had just closed in after a hot sultry day of autumn in Naples, as Maitland and Caffarelli sat on the sea-wall of the Chiaja, smoking their cigars in silence, apparently deep in thought, or sometimes startled by the distant shouts and cries of the populace who crammed the Toledo or the Quarter of St Lucia; for all Naples was now in the streets, and wild songs and yells resounded on every side.

In the bay the fleet lay at anchor; but the rapid flash of lanterns, as they rose and fell in the riggings, showed that the signalman was at work, and that messages were being transmitted and replied to throughout the squadron. A like activity seemed to prevail in the forts above the city, and the roll of the drum and the bugle-call occasionally could be heard overtopping all other sounds.

“What would a newly come traveller say to all this?” said Caffarelli, at last. “Would he think it was a city about to be attacked by an enemy, or would he deem it a town in open revolt, or one given up to pillage after the assault? I have seen to-night what might confirm any of these impressions.”

“And all three are present,” said Maitland, moodily. “Your traveller could scarcely be more puzzled than we are.”

The other sighed wearily, and Maitland went on. “What do you trust, or whom? Is it those noisy legions up there, who only muster to disband; or that gallant fleet that has come to anchor, only the more easily to surrender and change its flag?”

“There may be some traitors, but the great majority, I 'll swear, will stand by the King.”

“No; not one in fifty,—not one in a hundred. You don't seem to apprehend that loyalty is not a sudden instinct. It is a thing a man inherits. Take my word for it, Carlo, these men will not fight to keep a certain set of priests around a bigoted old Queen, or support a King whose highest ambition is to be a Jesuit.”

“And if you thought so meanly of the cause, why have you adopted it?”

“Because, ill as I think of the Court, I hate the rabble more. Remember, Carlo,”—and now he spoke in a rapid and marked tone,—“remember that, when I joined you, I deemed myself a rich man, and I had my ambitions, like the rest of you. Had I known what I now know,—had I foreseen that the day was so near wherein I was to find myself a beggar—”

“No, no, Maitland; don't say this.”

“And why not say it? It is true. You know as well as I do, that amongst that yelling rabble there is none poorer than myself; and for this reason, I repeat, I might have chosen my associates more wisely. You yourself saw the treatment I met with this morning.”

“Ay, but bear in mind, Maitland, what was the provocation you gave. It is no small thing to tell a king, surrounded by his ministers and generals, that he has not one loyal and true man in his train; that, what between treachery and cowardice, he will find himself alone, at the head of a few foreign regiments, who will only fight to cut their way through towards home.”

“I scarcely went so far as this,” said Maitland, smiling.

“Did you not, per Bacco! I was there and heard you. You accused Laguila to his face of being bought, and named the sum; and you told Cadorno that you had a copy of his letter promising to surrender the flag-ship to Garibaldi.”

“And they listened to me with an admirable patience.”

“I don't know that; I am certain Cadorno will send you a message before the week is over.”

“And why not before the day was over? Are these accusations a man sleeps upon?”

“The King commanded them both to reply to your charges formally and distinctly, but not with the sword; and he was right so far.”

“At all events, was it kingly to tell me of the favors that had been bestowed upon me, and to remind me that I was an alien, and unknown?”

“The King was angry.”

“He was angrier when I handed him back his patent, and told him that I did not care to be the last-made noble of a dynasty.”

“It was outrageous, I was shocked to hear you; and for one so young, I was struck with the dignity with which he heard you.”

“I don't think he understood me; he was impassive because he did not know he was wounded. But why do I talk of these things? They have no longer the faintest interest for me. Except yourself, there is not a man in the cause I care for.”

“This is a mere passing depression, my dear Maitland. All things seem sad-colored to you now. Wait till tomorrow, or wait till there be a moment of danger, and you will be yourself again.”

“As for that,” said Maitland, bitterly, “I am terribly myself just now. The last eight or ten years of my life were the dream; now is the awakenment. But cheer up, my old friend. I will stand by you, though I care very little for the cause you fight for. I will still serve on the Staff, and play out my part to the fall of the curtain.”

“What a strange scene that council was this morning!” said Caffarelli, half wishing to draw him from the personal theme.

“What a strange thing to call a council, where not merely men walked in and out unbidden, but where a chance traveller could sit down amongst the King's advisers, and give his opinion like a servant of the crown! Do you even know his name?”

“I'm not sure that I do; but it sounded like Tchernicheff. He distinguished himself against the Turks on the Danube.”

“And because he routed some ill-disciplined hordes with others a mere shade more civilized, he comes here to impose his opinion on our councils, and tell us how we are to defend ourselves!”

“I did not hear him utter a word.”

“No, but he handed in a paper drawn up by himself, in which he recommends the King to withdraw all the forces in front of Capua, and meet these marauders, where they will less like to fight, in the open. The advice was good, even though it came from a barbarian. In street-fighting your buccaneer is as good as, if not better than, a regular. All the circumstances of the ground favor him. Take him, however, where he must move and manouvre,—where he will have to form and re-form, to dress his line under fire, and occasionally change his flank,—then all the odds will be against him. So far the Scythian spoke well. His only miscalculation was to suppose that we will fight anywhere.”

“I declare, Maitland, I shall lose temper with you. You can't surely know what insulting things you say.”

“I wish they could provoke any other than yourself, mio caro. But come away from this. Let us walk back again. I want to have one more look at those windows before I go.”

“And are you really in love?” asked the other, with more of astonishment in his voice than curiosity.

“I wish I knew how to make her believe it, that's all,” said he, sadly; and, drawing his arm within his friend's, moved on with bent-down head and in silence.

“I think your friends are about the only travellers in Naples at this moment, and, indeed, none but English would come here at such a season. The dog-days and the revolution together ought to be too much even for tourist curiosity.”

Caffarelli went on to describe the arrival of the three heavy-laden carriages with their ponderous baggage and their crowd of servants, and the astonishment of the landlord at such an apparition; but Maitland paid him no attention,—perhaps did not even hear him.

Twice or thrice Caffarelli said something to arouse notice Or attract curiosity, even to pique irritability, as when he said: “I suppose I must have seen your beauty, for I saw two,—and both good-looking,—but neither such as would drive a man distracted out of pure admiration. Are you minding me? Are you listening to me?”

“No, I have not heard one word you were saying.”

“Civil, certainly; but, seriously, Maitland, is there not something more pressing to do at this moment than to loiter along the Chiaja to catch a glimpse of the closed curtains within which some blond angel may be taking her tea?”

“Go home, and I will join you later on. I have given orders about the horses. My man will have all in readiness by daybreak. You seem to me most terribly eager to have your head smashed. The King ought to reward your valor. It will be the only 'Cross' he will have to bestow.”

Caffarelli turned impatiently from him, and walked away.

Maitland looked after him for a moment, and then continued his way. He sauntered on, rather like one seeking to kill time than to reach a goal, and once or twice he stopped, and seemed to reflect whether he would go on. At last he reached a spot where a broad path of light streamed across the street, and extended till it was lost in the thick foliage-of the garden on the sea-side, and, looking suddenly up, he saw he was in front of the great hotel of Naples, “L'Universo.” The drawing-room windows were open on a long balcony, and Maitland could see in the well-lighted room certain figures which he persuaded himself he could recognize even through the muslin curtains, which slightly moved and waved in the faint night-air. As he still strained his eyes to mark the scene, two figures approached the window, and passed out upon the balcony. There could be no mistake,—they were Alice and her sister; and so perfect was the stillness of the air, and so thin withal, that he could hear the sound of their voices, though not trace their words.

“Is it not delicious here, Alice?” said Bella. “These are the glorious nights of Italy Maitland used to tell us of,—so calm, so balmy, and so starry.”

“What was that Skeffy was saying to you about Maitland as you came upstairs?” asked Alice, sharply.

“Oh, it was a rumor he mentioned that Maitland had quarrelled with the Court party. He had advised something, or rejected something; in fact, I paid little attention, for I know nothing of these Italian plots and schemes, and I like Maitland much better when he does not speak of them.”

“Is he here now, do you know?”

“Yes; Skeff said he saw him this morning.”

“I hope and pray he may not hear that we have arrived. I trust that we may not see him.”

“And why so, Alice dearest?”

“Can you ask me?”

“I mean, why not receive him on the terms of an easy intimacy? A person of his tact is always quick enough to appreciate the exact amount of favor he is held in.”

“It is of myself I am thinking,—not of him,” said she, with something of resentment in her tone.

“If you speak this way, Alice, I shall believe that you care for him.”

“The greater mistake yours, my dear Bella.”

“Well—that you did once care for him, and regret the fact, or regret the change,—which is it?”

“Neither, on my honor! He interested me,—I own to that; but now that I know his mystery, and what a vulgar mystery it is, I am half ashamed that I even felt an interest in him.”

“Gossip would say you did more, Alice,—that you gave him encouragement.”

“What an odious word you have impressed into your service! but I deny it; nor was he one to want it. Your adventurer never does.”

“Adventurer!”

“I mean it in its least offensive sense; but, really, I see no reason why this man's name is to persecute me. I left Ireland half to avoid it. I certainly need not encounter it here.”

“And if you meet him?”

“I shall not meet him. I don't intend to go out so long as we are here, and I trust I can refuse to receive him when at home.”

“I had almost said, Poor fellow!”

“Say it, by all means; compassionate—console him, too, if Skeff has no objection.”

“Oh, Alice!”

“Your own fault, Bella, if I say provoking things. No, mamma,” added she, to some remark from within; “our secrets, as you call them, cannot be overheard; for, first of all, we are talking English; and secondly, there is no person whatever in the street.”

Lady Lyle now made her appearance on the balcony, and soon afterwards they all re-entered the room. Maitland sat hours long on the stone bench, watching with intense eagerness as a shadow would pass or repass behind the curtains, and there he remained till all the lights were out in the hotel and the whole house sunk in silence.