Arsiero had suffered considerably, and although not entirely in ruins, as has been stated, was more damaged by fire and shell than any place in Italy I had yet seen. On the outskirts of the town the gairish _nouvel art_ villa of the famous Italian writer, Antonio Fogazzaro, which must have cost him a little fortune to build was now but an unsightly ultra-modern ruin standing in the midst of a wilderness of park-like grounds. One of the most advanced of the Austrian communication trenches leading into the valley started from here. A little distance further down the road were the immense paper-mills of Rossi and Co., said to have been the largest in Europe, and which employed hundreds of workpeople. The buildings were absolutely wiped out. They had been deliberately set fire to by the Austrians before they evacuated the town. Nothing remained now but acres of crumbling walls, smouldering timber, and twisted _débris_ of machinery, over which hung a pall, as it were, of smoke, a pitiful spectacle of wanton, insensate destruction. The town itself, a picturesque, rambling, up-hill and down-dale sort of place was only destroyed in patches, but with the shells still coming over there was yet a possibility of its utter destruction. As the gun-fire seemed to have lulled a bit, we had a stroll up to the battlefield on the hill beyond the houses. There a barrage of shell-fire had evidently been attempted, judging from the fragments of shell-cases of all calibres lying about. In places the ground was littered with the _detritus_ of war, and looked like an old-iron and rag-refuse heap. Here and there were interesting curios and many unexploded projectiles in perfect condition. It occurred to me that I would take one of these away with me as a souvenir for my studio, and was stooping down to pick up one when a soldier, who was passing, rushed towards me yelling out at the top of his voice, “Non toccate! non toccate! Signore.” I did not understand much Italian, but I knew enough to comprehend that I was not to touch it, and thought it strange that with all this rubbish lying about I could not take something if I fancied it. My companion came up at that moment and explained to me that it was most dangerous to handle these unexploded live shells—even walking too close to them has been known to cause them to explode. I did not want any further telling, and contented myself with taking an empty .77 as a souvenir. [Illustration: But nothing had stopped the rush of the Italians (_see page 158_) _To face page 160_] CHAPTER XIII