ds dusk, he was standing in the street, on the very threshold
of his house—next door to where your uncle lives—when he was stabbed;
the assassin ran away. It was believed to have been an act of private
vengeance; and being pretty well deserved, nobody troubled himself much
about it. A similar motive, also, is supposed to have been the cause
of my good friend, Count F——, being waylaid, as he was returning from
the theatre, about a twelvemonth after, and very severely wounded—in
fact, he was at first given over. Then there is that tall, white-haired
man, the Cavaliere V——. Well, he was both stabbed and shot at, poor
_diavolo_, during the Reign of Terror here, as he was taking a walk
about three in the afternoon. The wounds he received were very serious;
and in addition, the shock to his system was so great, that brain-fever
came on. He was known to be a _Codino_—that was his only crime; but
the hatred of the _rossi_[4] against him ran so high, that during his
illness they used to come and shout, 'Death to V——! Death to V——!'
under the very windows of his sick-room; and threatened the doctors who
attended him with their vengeance if he recovered. Poor creature, his
hair became blanched as you see it now from terror!”

The gay manner with which he commenced his narration had now quite
subsided, and he looked distressed at witnessing the mingled horror and
incredulity my face depicted.

“You scarcely can believe all this,” he said; “and then, if you are
once penetrated with its truth, you will never be able to understand
how any of us can yet hope for improvement in a people that so
miserably abused their first dawn of freedom. All you English reason
in this way now. But I must finish the account of the personages on
our canvas. There stands the young Marchese D——; he was greeted with
two bullets whizzing past his ears about the same period, as he was
returning from a stroll in the public gardens—their Pincian Hill, their
Villa Borghese here!” he added, contemptuously. “Ah, th