“They say you must leave Udine by the first train.” It suddenly flashed through my memory that I had heard of Novara as the town where Austrians and Germans were interned. I was so stupified for a moment that I did not know what to say. Then I told him as calmly as I could to ask the Commissaire what was the good of having a passport and such papers as I had if I was to be treated the same as an alien enemy. I could understand being requested to leave Udine, but not being ignominiously sent away. The Commissaire merely shrugged his shoulders and replied those were his orders. Suddenly I remembered the letter for the Military Commandant of Udine I had still in my pocket, fortunately. I pulled it out and asked to be at least permitted to deliver it before I was sent away. Its effect was, as it always had been, magical. The Commissaire looked at the address attentively, motioned me politely to be seated, then picking up my passport, took it with the letter into an adjoining room. He was gone some few minutes. When he returned he told my interpreter to inform me that if I would write out at once a full explanation of my object in coming to the Front and my reasons for desiring to remain, the letter should be given to General Cafarelli, who would decide what I had to do. I was warned, however, that there must be no delay, the statement must be delivered in a few hours. My papers were returned to me, and I was then allowed to leave the office. My good friends at the “Agrario” came to my help and got the letter drawn up in Italian and duly forwarded. The following day I had again to present myself at the Questura, and I was at once taken to the General’s offices in the adjoining building. General Cafarelli, the Governor of Udine, was a very tall, thin, elderly man, with a grey beard, strikingly like the popular pictures of Don Quixote. He held my _dossier_ in his hand, and had evidently just read it. He received me in the most frigid and unsympathetic manner, and I felt instantly that if it depended on him I was done with Udine and the Front. Without waiting for anything I might have to say, he said abruptly in French: “You must leave Udine at once; you are not permitted to remain.” I produced the famous letter, and asked if he could tell me when I could deliver it as it might perhaps affect his decision. To my surprise he just glanced at the superscription, then without hesitating, opened it and read it through. “This does not alter your case. You leave to-day,” he snapped out. “But not for Novara I hope, mon General,” I ventured to remark. “Well, I will make you that concession, but you must go either to Turin or Florence or Rome by the first train,” and then he added significantly: “I hope you will make no difficulty about it.” There was no mistaking his meaning.