Evelyn M. sat beside him, propping her chin on her hand.  She surveyed the view with a certain look of triumph.

“D’you think Garibaldi was ever up here?” she asked Mr. Hirst.  Oh, if she had been his bride!  If, instead of a picnic party, this was a party of patriots, and she, red-shirted like the rest, had lain among grim men, flat on the turf, aiming her gun at the white turrets beneath them, screening her eyes to pierce through the smoke!  So thinking, her foot stirred restlessly, and she exclaimed: 

“I don’t call this life, do you?”

“What do you call life?” said St. John.

“Fighting—­revolution,” she said, still gazing at the doomed city.  “You only care for books, I know.”

“You’re quite wrong,” said St. John.

“Explain,” she urged, for there were no guns to be aimed at bodies, and she turned to another kind of warfare.

“What do I care for?  People,” he said.

“Well, I am surprised!” she exclaimed.  “You look so awfully serious.  Do let’s be friends and tell each other what we’re like.  I hate being cautious, don’t you?”

But St. John was decidedly cautious, as she could see by the sudden constriction of his lips, and had no intention of revealing his soul to a young lady.  “The ass is eating my hat,” he remarked, and stretched out for it instead of answering her.  Evelyn blushed very slightly and then turned with some impetuosity upon Mr. Perrott, and when they mounted again it was Mr. Perrott who lifted her to her seat.

“When one has laid the eggs one eats the omelette,” said Hughling Elliot, exquisitely in French, a hint to the rest of them that it was time to ride on again.

The midday sun which Hirst had foretold was beginning to beat down hotly.  The higher they got the more of the sky appeared, until the mountain was only a small tent of earth against an enormous blue background.  The English fell silent; the natives who walked beside the donkeys broke into queer wavering songs and tossed jokes from one to the other.  The way grew very steep, and each rider kept his eyes fixed on the hobbling curved form of the rider and donkey directly in front of him.  Rather more strain was being put upon their bodies than is quite legitimate in a party of pleasure, and Hewet overheard one or two slightly grumbling remarks.

“Expeditions in such heat are perhaps a little unwise,” Mrs. Elliot murmured to Miss Allan.

But Miss Allan returned, “I always like to get to the top”; and it was true, although she was a big woman, stiff in the joints, and unused to donkey-riding, but as her holidays were few she made the most of them.

The vivacious white figure rode well in front; she had somehow possessed herself of a leafy branch and wore it round her hat like a garland.  They went on for a few minutes in silence.

“The view will be wonderful,” Hewet assured them, turning round in his saddle and smiling encouragement.  Rachel caught his eye and smiled too.  They struggled on for some time longer, nothing being heard but the clatter of hooves striving on the loose stones.  Then they saw that Evelyn was off her ass, and that Mr. Perrott was standing in the attitude of a statesman in Parliament Square, stretching an arm of stone towards the view.  A little to the left of them was a low ruined wall, the stump of an Elizabethan watch-tower.