"_Italia_," answered the first file of our advanced guard, and the Cavaliere di Casteluccio rode up at the head of his company of volunteers; all bold athletic fellows, armed with rifles and poniards, and carrying their ammunition in leather pouches or large buffalo horns. Below us, in Bagnara, all was still; the poor doomed soldiers slept soundly: not a light twinkled, not a sound broke the silence, save the rustle of the leafless trees, or the dash of the lonely sea as it rolled on the shingly beach. At times a red light shot across the sky to the westward; it rose from the peak of Stromboli in the distant isles of Æolus. We held a council in the olive grove before advancing. "Signor Casteluccio, be so good," said I, "as to describe the enemy’s post." "The voltigeurs are 600 strong, and commanded by a Colonel Pepe——" "Any relation of Don Pepe?" asked the visconte, laughing. "A tall lanthorn-jawed fellow, with a scar over the left eye," said the cavaliere. "The same," said I: "we have met before." "He occupies the house of the podesta, a stone building, well loop-holed and barricaded; the approach to it is defended by three twelve-pounders, which sweep the principal street, and are always loaded with round and tin-case shot. A hundred voltigeurs garrison the house; the others are quartered in those adjoining; and the defensive arrangements are such, that they can all act in concert, and, like a star-fort, the post gives a cross fire at every angle." "The safest approach?" "Is from the seaward. There a deep rut leads directly from the shore to the town; thick foliage overhangs it, under which we can advance unseen. A single sentinel guards the point—the night is dark—you comprehend me?" added the cavaliere, smiling grimly, as he touched one of those villainous stilettos, which his countrymen were never without. "Ay, Signor Paolo," I replied; "once in we will do very well; but as the voltigeurs sleep with their muskets loaded and their belts on, they will start to arms the moment the sentinel fires his piece." "But he must be disposed of," said Santugo, coolly. "Giacomo!" His fac-totum appeared immediately. "A French sentinel occupies the ravine through which we must advance undiscovered. He must not fire: you will see to this as you value life." Giacomo bowed intelligently, and was withdrawing, when the voice of Gascoigne arrested him. "You murdering: villain, come here! what the devil—will you permit this piece of rascality, Dundas?" "Assuredly not!" said I, dismounting from Cartouche. "I am an English officer, and not an assassin!" said Lascelles, in great wrath. "You have both only anticipated me," I replied. "Santugo, we cannot permit the poor soldier to be slain in a manner so dastardly. No! I would rather advance under the hottest fire of musketry, than consent to it: my own soldiers at least will follow me." A murmur of assent rose from the 62nd.