The flags and flowers glitter beneath the blue, cloudless sky, and the burning sun of a hot summer day gives an unwonted brightness to the grey colours of the grim, gaunt houses.

Down the steep, winding road leading from the old monastery of St Michael, where the King is lodged, through the dark, narrow, crowded streets, a brilliant cavalcade comes riding slowly; half a horse's length in front rides Victor Emmanuel.

Amongst the order-covered staff who follow, there is scarcely one of not more royal presence than their leader; there are many whose names may stand before his in the world's judgment, but the crowd has its eye fixed on the King, and the King alone.

For three days this selfsame crowd has followed him, and stared at him, and cheered him, but their ardour remains undiminished.

All the school-children of the city, down to little mites of things who can scarcely toddle, have been brought out to see him.