Though the advanced posts of the enemy were now pretty close to us on all sides, our fiery spark, Lascelles, went forth every evening, to visit his inamorata; who dwelt in the neighbourhood of Fiumara, which had now become a French cantonment. I have elsewhere alluded to his artistic talent: he had now conceived a violent fancy for delineating Italian girls in all the glory of ruddy and dimpled cheeks, dark eyes, braided hair, and very scanty petticoats. His apartments were strewed with such sketches; and Bianca rallied him smartly on finding that the same pretty face was traceable in every drawing: Oliver had evidently one vivid and particular idea ever uppermost in his mind. He had a rival, too,—a devil of a fellow,—who contrived to infuse an unusual quantum of mystery into this love affair: all the perils of which I will relate to the reader, while our friends, the French, are labouring at the Seminara road, in order to bring up their train of cannon. "Where away so fast, Oliver?" asked I, as he was hurrying past me, one evening, about dusk, muffled in his cloak. "Only a little way from the castle," he responded, somewhat impatiently. "Southward, eh?" "Ah—yes." "To Fiumara?" "Why—yes." "Take care, Oliver, my boy! The French 101st, a thousand strong, are cantoned there; and the end of this nightly visiting may be a few years unpleasant captivity in Verdun or Bitche." "Tush!" said he, impatiently; "I have my sword and pistols." "So much the worse; they may only provoke the wrath of your captors. ’T is a pity your fair one, Signora Montecino (that’s her name, I believe) lives in so dangerous a vicinity." "I am only going to visit the bishop of Nicastro." "A shallow excuse, Oliver: you are not a man to relish the old bishop’s society. By-the-bye, his niece is very pretty; is she not?" "Rather," said he, drily. "So much so, that you think her face cannot be delineated too often?" "Stay, Claude; no quizzing: I won’t stand it." "She has a brother, or cousin, a sad fellow—an outlawed guerilla, or something of that sort; who has served under Francatripa, and is stained with a thousand nameless atrocities. And do you know what people say about the pretty signorina herself?" "What say they?" he asked, sternly. "That she is a nearer relation of the good padre bishop than he cares to have generally known: priests’ nieces——" "D——n their impudence! only yourself, Claude—Capt. Dundas, I must request——" "O, yes; I understand all that: ha! ha!" "No man in the service——" "What! do you really love this girl, Oliver?" "Yes; on my honour, I do." "Very possibly: but—I speak as an old friend—you do not mean seriously?" He started, and coloured deeply.