Some months after I had written the question which closes the last chapter, I was fortunate enough to obtain a partial answer to it.  During the present year the Cavaliere Gennarelli, a Roman barrister, and a member of the Roman parliament in 1848, has published a series of official documents issued by the Papal authorities during the last ten years; the most damning indictment, by the way, that was ever recorded against a Government.  Amongst those documents there appears the official sentence which, as usual, was published after the execution of a certain Romulo Salvatori in 1851.  The trial possesses a peculiar momentary interest from the fact that Garibaldi is one of the persons implicated in the charge, and that the gallant general, if captured on Roman territory, would be liable to the judgment passed on him in default.  It is, however, rather with a view to show how the Papal system of justice works, when political bias comes into play, that I propose to narrate this story as a sequel to the others.  The words between inverted commas are, as before, verbal translations from the sentence.  From that sentence I have endeavoured to extract first the modicum of facts which seem to have been admitted without dispute.

During the death-struggle of the Roman Republic, when the Neapolitan troops had entered the Papal territory on their fruitless crusade, the country round Velletri was occupied by Garibaldi’s soldiery.  Near Velletri there is a little town called Giulianello, of which a certain Don Dominico Santurri was the head priest.  Justly or unjustly, this priest, and two inhabitants of the town, named De Angelis and Latini, were accused of plotting against the Republic; arrested by order of one of Garibaldi’s officers; imprisoned for a couple of days, and, after a military examination (though of what nature is a matter of dispute) found guilty of treason against the state.  The priest was sentenced to death and shot at once; the other two prisoners were dismissed with a reproof.  Subsequently orders were issued for their re-arrest.  One of them, Latini, had made his escape meanwhile; the other, De Angelis, being less fortunate, was arrested again and executed.

Now, how far these persons were really guilty or not of the offence for which they suffered, I of course have no means of knowing.  Common sense tells one that a nation, fighting for dear life against foes abroad and traitors within, is obliged to deal out very rough and summary justice, and can hardly be expected to waste much time in deliberation.  At any rate, when the Papal authority was restored, the Pope, on the demand of the French, declared a general amnesty for all political offences.  This promise, however, of an amnesty, like many other promises of Pius the Ninth, was made with a mental reservation.  The Pope pardoned all political offenders, but then the Pope alone was the judge of what constituted a political offence.

In accordance with this system the execution of Santurri and De Angelis was decided not to have been a political offence, but a case of private vengeance, and “the indignation of the public was so strong,” that Government could not refuse the imperative call for justice.  Within a few weeks, therefore, of the Papal restoration, seven inhabitants of Giulianello were arrested on the charge of being concerned in the murders of Santurri and De Angelis.