The count had been gone a week, and of course no news was as yet to be looked for. He had sailed with Quorn for some undecided part of the Italian coast, and we had resigned ourselves to hear no more of him for at least another fortnight. We were all busy enough at this time, and news favorable to our enterprise came on us thick and fast every day. This is no place for a history of the last Italian revolution. That story has never yet been fitly told, but it will furnish a splendid epic one of these days for a great historian. It came like a beneficent earthquake, with toil and trouble and turmoil enough, and it stirred up all Europe, and shook down many unjust forms of government. To my mind it is the happiest and most beautiful event in the modern history of Europe, for the revolution, though it was effected with the sternest purpose and the most unflinching heroism, was marked by none of the excesses of revenge and hatred which have disfigured so many popular risings against tyranny. I had been hard at work until three o'clock in the morning, had gone to bed dead tired, and had slept like a log until ten, when Hinge came in with a cup of steaming coffee, and began with his usual silent dexterity to lay out my clothes. I paid no especial heed to him at first, but by-and-by I caught sight of his face reflected in the mirror which decorated my skimpy wardrobe, and I could see at once that he was beaming with self-congratulation. He was one of the most faithful and constant fellows in the world, but as a general thing he was a little saturnine in temper. Any outward display of cheerfulness was rare with him, and such an outward sign of inward exultation as I read this morning was a downright astonishment. “Why, Hinge,” I asked him, “what's the matter with you?” “Nothing the matter with me, sir,” responded Hinge. “You look particularly pleased,” I said. “What has happened? Has anybody left you a fortune?” “No, sir,” Hinge answered, turning his hard-bitten, queer old mug towards me with a shining smile. “Nobody's left me a fortune, sir, but I'm just as glad as as if they had. You're a-lying a bit late this morning, sir, and you haven't seen the newspapers.” “The newspapers!” I cried, springing out of bed at once. “Let me have them. What's the news?” “The news is, sir,” Hinge answered, standing in attitude of attention, and smiling like a happy Gargoyle--“the news is, sir, as the Italians is playing Old Harry at Milan with them Austrians, and old Louis Philippe turned up at Newhaven, England, yesterday.” I made my toilet with unusual haste, and in the meantime Hinge brought the papers and read out the news. “I spent some years among them Austrians, sir,” said Hinge, and then paused suddenly, scratching his head with a look of irritation. “Yes,” I answered; “what of that?” Something was evidently on the good fellow's mind, and in the midst of his delight he was troubled with it.