When we reached the house we found the two friends radiantly happy in one another’s company, surrounded by a motley crew of secretaries, followers and nondescripts who had attached themselves to the great man’s service, and apparently lived with him and upon him. They seemed to be a ragged, happy, devil-may-care crowd, with very simple wants—a blanket or cloak on the floor; a little polenta; a goblet of wine hardly better than coloured water; one of those long, thin, curly cigars with a straw in it, made all the more rank and malodorous by being let out, stuffed into a pocket or hat-band, and lighted again as desire might prompt. These were sufficient to make happiness so far as lodging and creature comforts were concerned; of washing, the less said the better. Full of fun, good humour, high spirits they were, and of a truly Italian wealth of gesticulation. The house was humble enough. Little better than a farmhouse, with no attempt at ornament, no vestige of luxury—the unpretentious home of a gentleman farmer. I could not help thinking of the contrast which must have struck Garibaldi when, after his royal progress through London, he was received by Harriet, Duchess of Sutherland, that most regal of dames, standing in all her glory on the staircase at Stafford House. But his soul was utterly simple and devoid of any love of show or ostentation; the presence of anything of the nature of pomp or glorification excited no emotion in him, while the absence of it raised no regret. Italy would have given him anything. He might have lived luxuriously in a palace in Rome, Genoa or Naples. He preferred his rock, the humble homestead which he shared with those who loved him, satisfied with little beyond the scanty fare which his island could yield. [Illustration: GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI.] Garibaldi received Billy and me with the gentlest courtesy; indeed gentleness seemed to be the keynote of his character; this wonderful man, whom those who knew him not were wont to look upon as a revolutionary firebrand, had all the sweet tenderness of a woman, and yet there was nothing effeminate about him, nothing weak or puny; when you spoke with Garibaldi you felt that you were talking with a man. It was the combination of this sympathetic kindness with the stern determination of the born fighter that made him so irresistible as a leader, such a king among men. As for me, when he turned those clear, honest eyes of his upon me, I was under the spell, like everybody else. But when I listened to the liquid music of his voice I was his slave.