his powers,”—­that he should not obey,—­that the armistice was at an end, and he should attack Rome on Monday.  It was then Friday.  He proposed to leave these two days for the few foreigners that remained to get out of town.  M. Lesseps went off to Paris, in great seeming indignation, to get his treaty ratified.  Of course we could not hear from him for eight or ten days.  Meanwhile, the honorable chief, alike in all his conduct, attacked on Sunday instead of Monday.  The attack began before sunrise, and lasted all day.  I saw it from my window, which, though distant, commands the gate of St. Pancrazio.  Why the whole force was bent on that part, I do not know.  If they could take it, the town would be cannonaded, and the barricades useless; but it is the same with the Pincian Gate.  Small-parties made feints in two other directions, but they were at once repelled.  The French fought with great bravery, and this time it is said with beautiful skill and order, sheltering themselves in their advance by movable barricades.  The Italians fought like lions, and no inch of ground was gained by the assailants.  The loss of the French is said to be very great:  it could not be otherwise.  Six or seven hundred Italians are dead or wounded.  Among them are many officers, those of Garibaldi especially, who are much exposed by their daring bravery, and whose red tunic makes them the natural mark of the enemy.  It seems to me great folly to wear such a dress amid the dark uniforms; but Garibaldi has always done it.  He has now been wounded twice here and seventeen times in Ancona.

All this week I have been much at the hospitals where are these noble sufferers.  They are full of enthusiasm; this time was no treason, no Vicenza, no Novara, no Milan.  They had not been given up by wicked chiefs at the moment they were shedding their blood, and they had conquered.  All were only anxious to get out again and be at their posts.  They seemed to feel that those who died so gloriously were fortunate; perhaps they were, for if Rome is obliged to yield,—­and how can she stand always unaided against the four powers?—­where shall these noble youths fly?  They are the flower of the Italian youth; especially among the Lombards are some of the finest young men I have ever seen.  If Rome falls, if Venice falls, there is no spot of Italian earth where they can abide more, and certainly no Italian will wish to take refuge in France.  Truly you said, M. Lesseps, “Violence and friendship are incompatible.”

A military funeral of the officer Ramerino was sadly picturesque and affecting.  The white-robed priests went before the body singing, while his brothers in arms bore the lighted tapers.  His horse followed, saddled and bridled.  The horse hung his head and stepped dejectedly; he felt there was something strange and gloomy going on,—­felt that his master was laid low.  Ramerino left a wife and children.  A great proportion of those who run those risks are, happily, alone.  Parents weep, but will not suffer long; their grief is not like that of widows and children.