About half-past six Francis and Maria Sophia left the palace on foot, he in uniform as usual, she in an ordinary travelling dress and large straw hat trimmed with flowers. Accompanied by several ladies and gentlemen of the court, they walked through the palace gardens and down the long flight of steps that led to the arsenal, the Queen leaning on her husband’s arm, gay and cheerful as ever in spite of the ominous cloud that shadowed their departure. Below them lay the Gulf of Naples, smooth and bright as silver; but in the distance the bare, sombre peak of Vesuvius rose like a menace amid the smiling beauty of nature. The firemen of the ship in which the royal party was to embark had had to be kept on board by force, and some advised the King to place himself under the protection of some foreign flag, or to escape from the city secretly. Undecided, as usual, Francis knew neither what he could do, nor what he ought to do; but the captain of the vessel, who was thoroughly loyal, finally persuaded him to go on board, urging that it would be beneath the King’s dignity to flee from his capital like a criminal. Only one Italian vessel accompanied the King, but with it were two Spanish warships carrying the Austrian, Prussian, and Spanish ambassadors. The journey was most depressing. It had been decided upon so suddenly that no one thought of taking such ordinary things as food or even the few necessaries that would have made them comfortable. It was a wonderfully beautiful night, and the Queen sat on deck until ten o’clock, when it grew cold. Worn out with the fatigues and excitement of the last twenty-four hours, she went into the little deck cabin and lay down on a sofa. The King did not go to bed at all. Except for a few words now and then with the Captain, he spent the night silently pacing up and down the deck, watching the shores of Naples gradually fade from view, and thinking, who knows what? About two o’clock he asked whether the Queen had retired, and when told she was still asleep in the little cabin he went in and stood for a long time gazing down at her. Then removing his own cloak he gently spread it over her to protect her from the chill of the night air, and returned to his silent watch. Early the next morning they entered the harbor of Gaeta, and were met at the landing by Maria Theresa and her children with Father Borelli, her confessor. Francis had consulted this priest some months before as to the advisability of granting his subjects a more liberal form of government, and Father Borelli had merely echoed the views of the deceased King, declaring that such a course would only hasten a revolution, and warning him against it. “I believe you are right,” Francis answered, “but fear it will be impossible for me to follow your advice.” “Then Your Majesty may perhaps remember this day as the last on which I shall kiss the hand of a King of Naples,” returned the priest.