Boy-soldiers, with Lilliputian muskets, salute him as he passes.

A mob of men, heedless of the gendarmes or of the horses' hoofs, run before the cavalcade, in the burning heat, and cheer hoarsely.

Every window is lined with ladies in the gayest of gay dresses, who cast glances before the King, and try, like true daughters of Eve, to catch a smile from that plain, good-humoured face.

So amidst flowers and smiles and cheers the procession passes on.

There is no pause, indeed, in the ceaseless cheering, save where the band of exiles stands with the flags of Rome, and Naples, and Venice, covered with the black veil; or when the regiments defile past with the tattered colours which were rent to shreds at San Martino and at Solferino, and then the cry of "Viva Vittorio Emmanuele" is changed for that of "Viva l'Italia!" It is a Sunday afternoon, and at three o'clock I have turned out of the broiling streets into the vast, crowded theatre of Reggio.