A little this side of the Municipio, or city hall, which we identified through the flames and smoke in which it was enveloped, we came upon a Red Cross station—a square building belonging to the Custom House. Here, stretched out in the sun, lay the rescued of the day—five or six only, for it was not yet nine o’clock. Opposite the Municipio was the covered market, now the home of hundreds of survivors, and a place where bread was distributed. Between the market and the Municipio a marble Neptune of the eighteenth century still posed in nude absurdity. The most trivial of figures in the most trivial of poses had been spared, to the tips of his silly fingers, to stand between the flaming wreckage of the palace and the human wreckage of the market. Still further along, where the Marina widened again, we came upon the landing where the dead were laid out—men, women and children, all deposited in haste under some inadequate covering; a ghastly sight. From time to time a row boat would come up to the landing. The bodies were piled into it, and rowed out to sea. The Commander-in-Chief, we ascertained at last, could be found on the Duca di Genova, a steamer of the merchant marine anchored at the southern end of the harbor. Our struggle through the crowds to the landing stage; our fruitless efforts to get a boat; our final success, through the help of a friendly Italian officer; our visits to one ship and another, to authorities military and civil; our vain attempts to extract even the simplest information, such as the situation of our consulate and the fate of our consul; all this would be as dreary to tell as it was to experience. After three or four hours of ceaseless effort we returned to the shore with the following net acquisitions: an order for a tent, which we might pitch at a place to be appointed by the General in command of the third sector; permission to send one short official telegram; and a friend.