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?”

“Not by any means,” said Wilfrid.

“Mio prigione!” Jenna mouthed with ineffable contemptuousness; “he’ll have time to write his memoirs, as, one of the dogs did.  I remember my mother crying over, the book.  I read it?  Not I!  I never read books.  My father said—­the stout old colonel—­’Prison seems to make these Italians take an interest in themselves.’  ‘Oh!’ says my mother, ’why can’t they be at peace with us?’ ‘That’s exactly the question,’ says my father, ’we’re always putting to them.’  And so I say.  Why can’t they let us smoke our cigars in peace?”

Jenna finished by assaulting a herd of faces with smoke.

“Pig of a German!” was shouted; and “Porco, porco,” was sung in a scale of voices.  Jenna received a blinding slap across the eyes.  He staggered back; Wilfrid slashed his sword in defence of him.  He struck a man down.  “Blood! blood!” cried the gathering mob, and gave space, but hedged the couple thickly.  Windows were thrown up; forth came a rain of household projectiles.  The cry of “Blood! blood!” was repeated by numbers pouring on them from the issues to right and left.  It is a terrible cry in a city.  In a city of the South it rouses the wild beast in men to madness.  Jenna smoked triumphantly and blew great clouds, with an eye aloft for the stools,