There were no visitors left—only one hotel was open, Danielli’s—the Grand having been taken over by the Red Cross Society; the canals, those delightful arteries of Venetian life, appeared almost deserted, although the steam launches were running as usual; the pigeons had the place St. Marc practically to themselves, workmen were busy removing the glorious windows from the Doge’s Palace and bricking up the supporting arches. The chapel at the base of the Campanile was shrouded in thick brickwork; the famous bronze horses on the portico of St. Marc had been taken down at once; the interior of the church itself presented a curious spectacle, as it had several feet of sand on the floor, and was hidden by a big bastion of sandbags. It is perhaps of interest to mention that the first act of war between Austria and Italy took place at Venice. At 3.30 on the morning of the 24th May the inhabitants were aroused by the loud boom of a signal gun—this was immediately followed by the screech of all the steam whistles in the City and on the boats. In a very few minutes the batteries of the Aerial-Guard Station and machine guns and rifles were firing as rapidly as they could at the intruders—several Taubes flying at a great height—without effect, unfortunately, as they managed to drop several bombs and get away unscathed. Two of the bombs fell in the courtyard of the Colonna di Castelpo, one in the Tana near the Rio della Tana, another in the San Lucia, and a fourth in the Rio del Carmini. It was said that an enormous parachute, to which was suspended incandescent matter to light up the ground, was released from one of the aeroplanes, but this was not corroborated; it is certain though that the bomb that fell in San Lucia was incendiary and spread lighted petroleum, without effect happily. Austria, therefore, lost no time in beginning her war of vandalism. Every precaution possible was being adopted while I was there, to protect the city against any further aeroplane attacks, and there was a contingent of French aviators—amongst whom was Beaumont—staying at the hotel, who were constantly patrolling over the city. Unfortunately, in a place like Venice, which is such a veritable conglomeration of artistic treasures, it is obviously very difficult to protect all, and with a thoroughly ruthless and barbaric enemy like Austria it is to be feared that a lot of irreparable damage will be done before the end of the war. Life in Venice during the daytime was practically normal—sunshine engenders confidence; it was after nightfall that you realised the high state of tension in which everyone was living; it could scarcely be described as terror, but a “nervy,” “jumpy” condition, which was very uncanny. Everyone seemed to be on the _qui vive_, though curiously enough the fear of the Venetians, as far as I could judge, was not so much for themselves as for the safety of their beloved city.