Food, water, shelter were the three indispensables; they were going to a desert that lacked all these, and the torrential rain that began on the fatal day still continued. “Try to establish wireless communication between a warship in the harbor and the Marconi station at Monte Mario,” said Athol to a press representative. “If that’s impossible, wire Rome via Malta.” “Don’t expect news of me till I bring it myself,” one of the travelers called as the tardy train moved out of the station. It seemed hopeless to expect news. Our first friend to leave was Colonel Delmé Radcliffe of the English Embassy (the famous hunter of lions), who went down on the first train after the disaster. Later several official people we knew and one or two newspaper men followed. After they left Naples we heard no more from them. They disappeared into the blue, and we learned not to look for news of them till they themselves brought it. As the train pulled out we heard the tramp, tramp of marching men coming up the street--more soldiers for the south. Nearly all the garrison at Messina had been killed; every day regiments of soldiers went down to that grim battle-field, some to lose their lives, all to suffer agonies of mind and body, for as usual the army bore the brunt of the disaster--and bore it well. As we left the station we met Princess Nadine, called “the first citizen of Rome” by reason of her splendid work for the poor sick children of the city. Something was said about meeting the _profughi_ (refugees) who were expected on the next train from Naples. She shook her great benevolent head and answered firmly: “That is for the rest of you. I must keep to my work. My sick babies cannot be neglected. Everybody else will do for Calabria and Sicily; _they_ only have me.” The Princess was right. She belongs to the regular working army of philanthropists. The reserve volunteer force of the world was already mustering for this world disaster. A little farther on we met our friend, Lombardi, the great mathematician, carrying a traveling shawl and an umbrella. He stopped to speak to us: “Just in time to say good-by! I am leaving by the next train.” “For Messina?” He laughed--“No, to get _out_ of Messina--that’s more than I can do in Rome! I am off for Morocco, the farthest place from Messina I know. The Moors won’t trouble themselves much about the earthquake. I must have more quiet than can be found in Italy this year, if I am to finish my calculations.” Just as we were getting into our cab outside the station our friend Nerone came along. He looked pale, red-eyed, completely knocked out. “What is the matter?” I asked. “Have you been ill?” “Matter?” he cried, astonished at the question. “This thing has made me ill. I had to take a purge and go to bed.” I never heard that Nerone did anything else for the sufferers--taking a purge did seem an odd way of showing sympathy.