They landed in a pouring rain and made their way to the ruins of the American Consulate. From a shattered window flapped a yellow brocade curtain above a huge mass of stone and plaster, with gaunt beams sticking up against the leaden sky. A detachment of American sailors were working here in shifts day and night. A little farther on the party stopped, rooted to the earth by the sound of a weird lament, like the keening of the mourners at an Irish wake. They soon saw where the dreadful wailing came from. Seated on a pile of debris was an old woman, all huddled together, her head in her hands, her knees drawn up to her chin, swaying slowly backwards and forwards, the movement of her body keeping time to her moans; she might have been one of the ancient cave-dwellers, the attitude, the lament seemed a strange primitive expression of despair, old as the race. “That is Sora Anna; they have found her son’s head and part of the body,” said Gasperone indifferently. “That girl is Elena, his _fidanzata_; they were to be married this month. They are waiting for the coffin.” The girl, Elena, stood beside the old woman like a thing of stone. She was a beautiful creature; her face was almost as white as the lint with which her head was bandaged. Silent and dry-eyed, she looked like a statue of revolt. At her feet lay the ghastly fragments of her lover’s body. Two soldiers passed with picks on their shoulders; one of them asked the girl if he could help her. She paid no attention, but stood looking across the sea, stony and silent, while the mother wailed the death song for her son. “Come,” said Gasperone, “it will be dark in an hour; the sun no sooner gets up than it goes to bed. Madonna! With all the rest, it is too much that the days should be so short. After dark, the wild dogs who come from the mountains to devour the dead are dangerous; in the day, they are more timid, the soldiers have shot so many.” Gasperone led the way towards the cathedral square. On their way they passed the ruins of the Banca d’Italia, guarded by a strong force of soldiers. “There is a great treasure here,” said Gasperone, “that must be guarded at any cost, you understand. These soldiers might--but it is always so; gold is worth more than flesh and blood!” In one of the main streets Gasperone stopped beside a tragic group--a priest, an old woman and a dead man. “Ah, behold!” he cried, “they have just found Padre Antonio’s twin brother. He and his mother were the only ones saved of a family of fourteen.” The priest, haggard and wild looking, with his arm in a sling, began to read aloud a prayer. His mother stood beside him, swaying backwards and forwards. As the prayer ended, the mother joining in the benediction, _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritûs Sancti_; a newspaper reporter fixed his camera on a tripod and photographed the pathetic group. The rain, that had stopped for a moment, now came down again in torrents and drenched them all to the skin.