Stundberger accompanied me to my vehicle, into which I got with the brigadier of gens d’armes, to whose care I was entrusted. It was snowing, and the cold was excessive.

“Wrap yourself well up in your cloak,” said Stundberger; “cover your head better, and contrive to reach home as little unwell as you can; remember, that a very little thing will give you cold just now. I wish it had been in my power to go on and attend you as far as Turin.” He said this in a tone of voice so truly cordial and affectionate that I could not doubt its sincerity.

“From this time you will have no German near you,” he added; “you will no longer hear our language spoken, and little, I dare say, will you care for that; the Italians find it very harsh. Besides, you have suffered so greatly among us, that most probably you will not like to remember us; yet, though you will so soon forget my very name, I shall not cease, sir, to offer up prayers for your safety.”

“I shall do the same for you,” I replied; as I shook his hand for the last time.

“Guten morgen! guten morgen! gute raise! leben sie wohl!”—farewell; a pleasant journey! good morning he continued to repeat; and the sounds were to me as sweat as if they had been pronounced in my native tongue.

I am passionately attached to my country, but I do not dislike any other nation. Civilisation, wealth, power, glory, are differently apportioned among different people; but in all there are minds obedient to the great vocation of man,—to love, to pity, and to assist each other.

The brigadier who attended me, informed me that he was one of those who arrested Confalonieri. He told me how the unhappy man had tried to make his escape; how he had been baffled, and how he had been torn from the arms of his distracted wife, while they both at the same time submitted to the calamity with dignity and resignation.

The horrible narrative increased my fear; a hand of iron seemed to be weighing upon my heart. The good man, in his desire of showing his sociality, and entertaining me with his remarks, was not aware of the horror he excited in me when I cast my eye on those hands which had seized the person of my unfortunate friend.

He ordered luncheon at Buffalora, but I was unable to taste anything. Many years back, when I was spending my time at Arluno, with the sons of Count Porro, I was accustomed to walk thither (to Buffalora), along the banks of the Ticino. I was rejoiced to see the noble bridge, the materials of which I had beheld scattered along the Lombard shore, now finished, notwithstanding the general opinion that the design would be abandoned. I rejoiced to traverse the river and set my foot once more on Piedmontese ground. With all my attachment to other nations, how much I prefer Italy! yet Heaven knows that however much more delightful to me is the sound of the Italian name, still sweeter must be that of Piedmont, the land of my fathers.