“But the danger,” said Uncle John.  “What do you think of the wisdom of our staying here?  Is it safe to keep my girls in Naples during this eruption?”

“Ah!  Why not?  This very morning the mountain asunder burst, and we who love our people dread the news of devastation we shall hear.  From the observatory, where His Majesty’s faithful servant still remains, come telegrams that the great pebbles—­what we call scoria—­have ruined Ottajano and San Guiseppe.  Perhaps they are overwhelmed.  But the beast has vomited; he will feel better now, and ever become more quiet.”

“I suppose,” remarked Mr. Merrick, thoughtfully, “that no one knows exactly what the blamed hill may do next.  I don’t like to take chances with three girls on my hands.  They are a valuable lot, Colonel, and worth saving.”

The boyish Italian instantly looked grave.  Then he led Uncle John away from the others, although doubtless he was the only officer present able to speak or understand English, and said to him: 

“Where are you living?”

“At the hotel named after your sick mountain—­the Vesuve.”

“Very good.  In the bay, not distant from your hotel, lies a government launch that is under my command.  At my home in the Viala Elena are a wife and two children, who, should danger that is serious arise, will be put by my soldiers on the launch, to carry them to safety.  Admirable, is it not?”

“Very good arrangement,” said Uncle John.

“It renders me content to know that in any difficulty they cannot be hurt.  I am not scare, myself, but it is pleasant to know I have what you call the side that is safe.  From my American wife I have many of your excellent speech figures.  But now!  The launch is big.  Remain happy in Naples—­happy as Vesuvio will let you—­and watch his vast, his gigantic exhibition.  If danger come, you all enter my launch and be saved.  If no danger, you have a marvelous experience.”  The serious look glided from his face, and was replaced by a smile as bright as before.

“Thank you very much,” responded Uncle John, gratefully.  “I shall go back to the girls well satisfied.”

“Make the signorini stay in to-day,” warned the colonel.  “It is bad, just now, and so black one can nothing at all observe.  To-morrow it will be better, and all can go without.  I will see you myself, then, and tell you what to do.”

Then he insisted that Uncle John clear his parched throat with a glass of vermouth—­a harmless drink of which all Italians are very fond—­and sent him away much refreshed in body and mind.

He made his way through the ashy rain back to the hotel.  People were holding umbrellas over their heads and plodding through the dust with seeming unconcern.  At one corner a street singer was warbling, stopping frequently to cough the lava dust from his throat or shake it from his beloved mandolin.  A procession of peasants passed, chanting slowly and solemnly a religious hymn.  At the head of the column was borne aloft a gilded statuette of the Virgin, and although Uncle John did not know it, these simple folks were trusting in the sacred image to avert further disaster from the angry mountain.