“Till evening extinguished my resource, I remained at my post; and how shall I describe the thrill of joy with which I acknowledged so unexpected a consolation! I was no longer alone; I had once more a living companion. Next day and the days succeeding, the shadow of another soldier appeared; the sentinels were ever changing, but my enjoyment was the same. It was always a man—always a fellow-creature I knew to be near me—a living, breathing fellow-creature, whose movements I could watch, and whose dispositions conjecture. When the moment came for relieving guard, I welcomed the new-comer, and bade good-by to his predecessor. I knew the corporal by sight; I could recognise the different profiles of the men; nay (dare I avow such a weakness!), some among them were objects of my predilection. The attitude of their persons, or comparative vivacity of their movements, became so many indications of character, from which their age and sentiments might be inferred. One paced gaily along, turning lightly on his heel, balancing his musket in sport, or waving his head in cadence to the air he was whistling; _he_ was doubtless young and gay, cheered by visions of happiness and love. Another paced along, with his brow inclining, pausing often, and leaning with his arms crossed upon his musket, meditating mournfully, perhaps, upon his distant village, his absent mother, his childhood’s friends. He passed his hand rapidly over his eyes—perhaps to dash away the tears gathered by these tender retrospections! [Illustration] “For many of these shadows I felt a lively interest, an inexplicable compassion; and the balm thus called into existence within my bosom shed its soothing influence over my fate. Trust me, my good young friend, the truest happiness is that we derive from our sympathy with our fellow-creatures.” “Why did I not become earlier acquainted with you, excellent man?” cried Charney, deeply affected. “How different, then, had been the tenor of my life! But what right have I to complain? Have I not found in this desolate spot all that was denied me amid the splendour of the world?—a devoted heart—a noble soul—an anchor of strength—virtue and truth—Girardi and Picciola?” For among all these effusions of the heart, Picciola was not forgotten. The two friends had constructed a more capacious seat beside her; where, side by side, and facing the lovely plant, they passed hour after hour together, all three in earnest conversation. Charney had given to this new seat the name of “The Bench of Conference.” There did the simple-minded Girardi aspire for once to eloquence: for without eloquence in the expositor, no conviction. Nor were the eloquence or conviction wanting. The bench had become the rostrum of a professor; a professor, though less learned than his scholar, infinitely wiser and more enlightened. The professor is Giacomo Girardi, the pupil the Count de Charney, and the book in process of exposition—Picciola! [Illustration] [Illustration]