“So, that’s the tale afloat,” said Wilfrid.  “Come to my hotel and dine with me.  I suppose that cur has driven my luggage there.”

Jenna informed him that officers had to muster in barracks every evening.

“Come and see your old comrades; they’ll like you better in bad luck—­ there’s the comfort of it:  hang the human nature!  She’s a good old brute, if you don’t drive her hard.  Our regiment left Verona in November.  There we had tolerable cookery; come and take the best we can give you.”

But this invitation Wilfrid had to decline.

“Why?” said Jenna.

He replied:  “I’ve stuck at Meran three months.  I did it, in obedience to what I understood from Colonel Zofel to be the General’s orders.  When I was as perfectly dry as a baked Egyptian, I determined to believe that I was not only in disgrace, but dismissed the service.  I posted to Botzen and Riva, on to Milan; and here I am.  The least I can do is to show myself here.”

“Very well, then, come and show yourself at our table,” said Jenna.  “Listen:  we’ll make a furious row after supper, and get hauled in by the collar before the General.  You can swear you have never been absent from duty:  swear the General never gave you forcible furlough.  I’ll swear it; all our fellows will swear it.  The General will say, ’Oh! a very big lie’s equal to a truth; big brother to a fact, or something; as he always does, you know.  Face it out.  We can’t spare a good stout sword in these times.  On with me, my Pierson.”

“I would,” said Wilfrid, doubtfully.

A douse of water from a window extinguished their cigars.

Lieutenant Jenna wiped his face deliberately, and lighting another cigar, remarked—­“This is the fifth poor devil who has come to an untimely end within an hour.  It is brisk work.  Now, I’ll swear I’ll smoke this one out.”

The cigar was scattered in sparks from his lips by a hat skilfully flung.  He picked it up miry and cleaned it, observing that his honour was pledged to this fellow.  The hat he trampled into a muddy lump.  Wilfrid found it impossible to ape his coolness.  He swung about for an adversary.  Jenna pulled him on.

“A salute from a window,” he said.  “We can’t storm the houses.  The time’ll come for it—­and then, you cats!”

Wilfrid inquired how long this state of things had been going on.  Jenna replied that they appeared to be in the middle of it;—­nearly a week.  Another week, and their, day would arrive; and then!

“Have you heard anything of a Count Ammiani here?” said Wilfrid.

“Oh! he’s one of the lot, I believe.  We have him fast, as we’ll have the bundle of them.  Keep eye on those dogs behind us, and manoeuvre your cigar.  The plan is, to give half-a-dozen bright puffs, and then keep it in your fist; and when you see an Italian head, volcano him like fury.  Yes, I’ve heard of that Ammiani.  The scoundrels, made an attempt to get him out of prison—­I fancy he’s in the city prison—­last Friday night.  I don’t know exactly where he is; but it’s pretty fair reckoning to say that he’ll enjoy a large slice of the next year in the charming solitude of Spielberg, if Milan is restless.  Is he a friend of yours?”