Twilight had turned to darkness, and the search grew more and more difficult as a fine rain began to fall.

Below, the multitude was already ebbing back to Rome; it was dark, it was wet, hardly any one had been hurt, and there was nothing to see: the best thing to be done was to go home.
It was late when a squad of four artillerymen heard a low moan that came from under a heap of stones close by them.

In an instant they were at work with the pickaxes and spades they had borrowed from the peasants' houses, foreseeing what their work would be.

From time to time they paused a moment and listened.

Before long they recognised their comrade's voice.
'Easy, brothers! Don't crack my skull with your pickaxes, for Heaven's sake!' 'Is the Captain there ?' asked one of the men.
'Dead,' answered the prisoner.