It was from Rosina that the eagle-faced man had got his phrase; it was from her that I for the first time had an inkling of the true extent of the calamity. When I look back at these last months during which I have lived with the thought of Messina always with me, till it seems as if the word Messina must be found seared upon my heart when I am dead, I hear those words, “_Messina non esiste più!_” When I pass in review the hundreds of survivors I have seen and talked with in Rome, Syracuse, Palermo, finally in Messina itself, I see clearest of all the face of Rosina, the ancient woman; I hear her shriek of woe: “_Messina non esiste più!_” II THE STRAITS OF DEATH Wednesday, December 30th, the King and Queen of Italy sailed through the straits and into the harbor of Messina. As their ship, the “Vittorio Emanuele,” approached the Faro, the gunners of the Russian cruisers, the English men-of-war, and the Italian battleships began to fire the royal salute. “Cease firing!” The signal flashed from the King’s ship; this was no time for royal salvos. The “Vittorio Emanuele” crept cautiously along, feeling every inch of her way, for a new terror had been added to the old perils of Scylla and Charybdis. It was said that under the seething waters of the uneasy straits a submarine volcano had arisen, and no one knew how much the bottom of straits or harbor had been altered by the action of this hidden volcano. A fleet of small boats filled with desperate half-naked men put off from the shore and surrounded the King’s ship. This was the third day after the earthquake; the survivors were starving, dying of cold and hunger, when in every Italian village men and women had taken the clothes from their backs, the food from their mouths for them, when in Rome the poor prisoners in the gaols had voted to a man that the little sums they had earned and put by against their release should be spent for them. The shivering figures in the boats stretched out appealing hands towards the King. “_Aiutarteci, aiutarteci!_” they cried. “Help us, Majesty. Give us to eat, give us to drink, clothes to cover us, the abandoned of God and man!” These broken men were the King’s escort, their frenzied cries Messina’s greeting to her sovereign. In a crazy felucca a tall old sailor held up a hand to silence the clamoring crew, snatched a red biretta from his silver curls, waved it above his head with a ringing cry: “Evviva! We have the King, we have all!” “Thou sayest well, Luigi,” the young _avvocato_, Arcangelo Bonanno, called out from the pier. He knew Luigi, the old fisherman, and had sailed with him from Giardini to Messina [Illustration: MESSINA. THE WATER FRONT. _Page 41._] [Illustration: MESSINA. A FUNERAL BARGE. _Page 42._] [Illustration: THE KING AND THE WOUNDED OFFICER. _Page 43._] in the “Stella del Mare,” one of the few boats spared by the tidal wave that had made total wrecks of most of the fishing smacks along the coast.