Murat contented himself with stating that he had been on his way from Corsica to Trieste with a passport from the Emperor of Austria when stormy weather and lack of provisions had forced him to put into Pizzo.  All other questions Murat met with a stubborn silence; then at least, wearied by his importunity—­

“General,” he said, “can you lend me some clothes after my bath?”

The general understood that he could expect no more information, and, bowing to the king, he went out.  Ten minutes later, a complete uniform was brought to Murat; he put it on immediately, asked for a pen and ink, wrote to the commander-in-chief of the Austrian troops at Naples, to the English ambassador, and to his wife, to tell them of his detention at Pizzo.  These letters written, he got up and paced his room for some time in evident agitation; at last, needing fresh air, he opened the window.  There was a view of the very beach where he had been captured.

Two men were digging a hole in the sand at the foot of the little redoubt.  Murat watched them mechanically.  When the two men had finished, they went into a neighbouring house and soon came out, bearing a corpse in their arms.

The king searched his memory, and indeed it seemed to him that in the midst of that terrible scene he had seen someone fall, but who it was he no longer remembered.  The corpse was quite without covering, but by the long black hair and youthful outlines the king recognised Campana, the aide-decamp he had always loved best.

This scene, watched from a prison window in the twilight, this solitary burial on the shore, in the sand, moved Murat more deeply than his own fate.  Great tears filled his eyes and fell silently down the leonine face.  At that moment General Nunziante came in and surprised him with outstretched arms and face bathed with tears.  Murat heard him enter and turned round, and seeing the old soldier’s surprise.

“Yes, general,” he said, “I weep; I weep for that boy, just twenty-four, entrusted to me by his parents, whose death I have brought about.  I weep for that vast, brilliant future which is buried in an unknown grave, in an enemy’s country, on a hostile shore.  Oh, Campana!  Campana! if ever I am king again, I will raise you a royal tomb.”

The general had had dinner served in an adjacent room.  Murat followed him and sat down to table, but he could not eat.  The sight which he had just witnessed had made him heartbroken, and yet without a line on his brow that man had been through the battles of Aboukir, Eylau, and Moscow!  After dinner, Murat went into his room again, gave his various letters to General Nunziante, and begged to be left alone.  The general went away.

Murat paced round his room several times, walking with long steps, and pausing from time to time before the window, but without opening it.

At last he overcame a deep reluctance, put his hand on the bolt and drew the lattice towards him.