“Yes,” said Orso, whose eyes had shone as he listened to the story.  “They covered the retreat, and brought back their eagle.  Two thirds of those brave fellows are sleeping now on the plains of Vittoria!”

“And, perhaps, you can tell me the name of the officer in command?”

“It was my father—­he was then a major in the Eighteenth, and was promoted colonel for his conduct on that terrible day.”

“Your father!  Upon my word, he was a brave man!  I should be glad to see him again, and I am certain I should recognise him.  Is he still alive?”

“No, colonel,” said the young man, turning slightly pale.

“Was he at Waterloo?”

“Yes, colonel; but he had not the happiness of dying on the field of battle.  He died in Corsica two years ago.  How beautiful the sea is!  It is ten years since I have seen the Mediterranean!  Don’t you think the Mediterranean much more beautiful than the ocean, mademoiselle?”

“I think it too blue, and its waves lack grandeur.”

“You like wild beauty then, mademoiselle!  In that case, I am sure you will be delighted with Corsica.”

“My daughter,” said the colonel, “delights in everything that is out of the common, and for that reason she did not care much for Italy.”

“The only place in Italy that I know,” said Orso, “is Pisa, where I was at school for some time.  But I can not think, without admiration, of the Campo-Santo, the Duomo, and the Leaning Tower—­especially of the Campo-Santo.  Do you remember Orcagna’s ‘Death’?  I think I could draw every line of it—­it is so graven on my memory.”

Miss Lydia was afraid the lieutenant was going to deliver an enthusiastic tirade.

“It is very pretty,” she said, with a yawn.  “Excuse me, papa, my head aches a little; I am going down to my cabin.”

She kissed her father on the forehead, inclined her head majestically to Orso, and disappeared.  Then the two men talked about hunting and war.  They discovered that at Waterloo they had been posted opposite each other, and had no doubt exchanged many a bullet.  This knowledge strengthened their good understanding.  Turning about, they criticised Napoleon, Wellington, and Blucher, and then they hunted buck, boar, and mountain sheep in company.  At last, when night was far advanced, and the last bottle of claret had been emptied, the colonel wrung the lieutenant’s hand once more and wished him good-night, expressing his hope that an acquaintance, which had begun in such ridiculous fashion, might be continued.  They parted, and each went to bed.

CHAPTER III