It was then that their brigade commander, Major General Rey de Villarey, who, though a native of Mentone, had preferred remaining with his king from going over to the French after the cession, turning to his son, who was also his aide-de-camp, said in his dialect, ‘Now, my son, we must die both of us,’ and with a touch of the spurs was soon in front of the line and on the hill, where three bullets struck him almost at once dead.  The horse of his son falling while following, his life was spared.  My lieutenant at this moment was so overcome with hunger and fatigue that he fell down, and was thought to be dead.  He was not so, however, and had enough life to hear, after the fight was over, the Austrian Jagers pass by, and again retire to their original positions, where their infantry was lying down, not dreaming for one moment of pursuing the Italians.  Four of his soldiers—­all Neapolitans he heard coming in search of him, while the bullets still hissed all round; and, as soon as he made a sign to them, they approached, and took him on their shoulders back to where was what remained of the regiment.  It is highly creditable to Italian unity to hear an old Piedmontese officer praise the levies of the new provinces, and the lieutenant took delight in relating that another Neapolitan was in the fight standing by him, and firing as fast as he could, when a shell having burst near him, he disdainfully gave it a look, and did not even seek to save himself from the jattatura.

The gallant lieutenant had unfortunately to leave at last, and I was deprived of many an interesting tale and of a brave man’s company.  I started, therefore, for Viadana, where I purposed passing the Po, the left bank of which the road was now following parallel with the stream.  At Viadana, however, I found no bridge, as the military had demolished what existed only the day before, and so had to look out for in formation.  As I was going about under the porticoes which one meets in almost all the villages in this neighbourhood, I was struck by the sight of an ancient and beautiful piece of art—­for so it was—­a Venetian mirror of Murano.  It hung on the wall inside the village draper’s shop, and was readily shown me by the owner, who did not conceal the pride he had in possessing it.  It was one of those mirrors one rarely meets with now, which were once so abundant in the old princes’ castles and palaces.  It looked so deep and true, and the gilt frame was so light, and of such a purity and elegance, that it needed all my resolution to keep from buying it, though a bargain would not have been effected very easily.  The mirror, however, had to be abandoned, as Dosalo, the nearest point for crossing the Po, was still seven miles distant.  By this time the sun was out in all its force, and the heat was by no means agreeable.  Then there was dust, too, as if the carrettieri had been passing in hundreds, so that the heat was almost unbearable.  At last the Dosalo ferry was reached, the road leading