A laugh, rising into a yell, at the bow, attracted my attention, and on going forward I perceived the hunchback, Gaspare Truffi, tugging away at the first oar, which he pulled in conjunction with three men: his strength being deemed equal to that of two slaves. As I stepped along the gangway, scowling and imploring glances were cast upon me, by the swart and naked oarsmen. I could not resist saying, in a low voice, "Poor men! truly I pity you!" These words were not thrown away. "Madonna bless thee, Signor Inglese," said he who had been called Frà Maso; "like thy countrymen, thou art merciful!" "Merciful! bah!" cried Truffi; "have I not seen them scourge their brave soldiers like dogs—even as we are now scourged!" I watched the exertions of the powerful hunchback with surprise: he toiled away with what appeared most decided good-will, without receiving a single blow from the boatswain, although his conical hump and shaggy breast presented prominent marks for the taskmaster’s scourge. His aspect was grotesque beyond description, as he tugged away and strained until every muscle in his deformed body seemed about to snap; his matted black hair overhung his fierce twinkling eyes, and a forest of the same material fringed his capacious mouth, which every instant sent forth a yell or a shout of laughter. On my approach, he bent to the oar with redoubled fury, raving and howling, while he spat towards me in token of hatred and undying enmity. With more astonishment than commiseration, with more disgust than pity, I regarded this curious little desperado; whose hideous form contrasted so strongly with the powerful and herculean frames of the other slaves: their bodies, naked to the waist, and having every muscle hardened to rigidity by excessive toil, presented in almost every instance perfect models for the artist and sculptor. A half-stifled sob—a hurried exclamation—caused me to turn towards a fine-looking old slave, to whose antique contour of head and face additional dignity was lent by a venerable beard, which swept his breast. Never shall I forget the glance with which his keen dark eyes regarded me: his features had all that noble regularity and proud contour which are often found in old Italian portraits; but there was a stern expression of care in them, and the hard contracted lines of his face showed a long acquaintance with grief, or an exquisite degree of mental agony. It was the Major Gismondo! Alas! how changed now was the brave old cavalry officer—the once gay cicisbeo of the fashionable viscontessa! "Here! you here?" I exclaimed.