It was now the turn of the Italian Admiral to do the honours of his ship. Nelson and Caracciolo had both fought at the siege of Toulon, where the courage and skill of the latter had been rewarded by the rank of Admiral, thus making him equal to Nelson over whom he had already the advantage of being heir to a name illustrious during three centuries. Possibly this last detail explains the cold greeting exchanged between the Admirals and the evident haste with which Caracciolo returned to his post on the quarter-deck.

  Meanwhile Sir William Hamilton had been explaining to the King how the island of Capri had been bought from the Neapolitans by Augustus, who had observed that the branches of a decayed old oak, at the moment of his landing in the island had recovered themselves and put forth fresh leaves. The King listened attentively, and then remarked:

  “My dear Ambassador, the quails began their migration three days ago. In a week’s time we will have a grand shoot at Capri; there will be thousands of them.”

  The Ambassador, who owed his favour with the King to the fact that he was himself an excellent shot, bowed his acknowledgment.

  The Commandants at Naples had kept their glasses fixed on the royal galley and when she was seen to tack and make for Naples, judging that Nelson must be on board, they ordered a salute of a hundred and one guns, such as announces the birth of an heir to the crown. The royal carriages and those belonging to the Embassy were in waiting, it having been agreed that for this day the Palace would cede its rights to the Embassy, that Nelson should be the guest of the Hamiltons, who would give the dinner and the fête which was to follow it, in which the town of Naples would join with illuminations and fireworks.

  When close upon the harbour, Lady Hamilton approached Caracciolo and, addressing him with her gentlest voice and most seductive manner:

  “The entertainment we are giving to our illustrious countryman will be incomplete,” she said, “if the only sailor who can compare with him does not help us in doing honour to his victory by proposing a toast to the greatness of England, the happiness of the Two Sicilies and the humiliation of the proud French Republic which dares to make war upon kings. We hope that Admiral Caracciolo, the hero of Toulon, will undertake this.”

  Caracciolo, one of the handsomest and most dignified men of his time, bowed courteously.

  “Milady,” he replied with gravity, “I deeply regret my inability to perform the glorious task you would entrust to me, but the night threatens to be as stormy as the day has been beautiful.”

  Lady Hamilton smiled and glanced at the horizon. Except for a few light clouds rising near Procida the blue of the sky was as clear as that of her eyes.

  “You do not believe me, Milady,” said Caracciolo, “but a man who has spent two-thirds of his life on this capricious Mediterranean can read the message of the atmosphere. Those light clouds which you see rising over there and approaching us show that the wind is veering from N.W. to West. By ten o’clock this evening it will be blowing from the South which means a “scirocco,” and the port of Naples being open to every wind that blows, and this one in particular, it becomes my duty to see that the ships of His Britannic Majesty, already damaged in battle, at least get a safe anchorage. What we have done to-day, Milady, is simply a perfectly plain declaration of war with France. Now the French are at Rome, five days’ march from here. Believe me, in a very few days it will be well to have both fleets in fighting condition.”

  Lady Hamilton frowned.

  “Prince,” she said, “I accept your excuse, which shews so much anxiety for the joint interests of their Majesties of England and Naples. But we hope at least to see your charming niece Cecilia, who cannot plead ignorance, having received her invitation the very day on which we heard from Lord Nelson.”

  “Alas! Milady, but there is another unhappy circumstance which I have to tell you. My sister-in-law, Cecilia’s mother, has been so ill the last few days that it is impossible for her daughter to leave her, and I received a letter from the poor girl this morning expressing her deep regret at being unable to attend your fête and begging me to present her excuses to your ladyship, which I have the honour to do at this moment.”

  During this short conversation the Queen had approached, listened, heard, and understood. She frowned, her lower lip lengthened, and her cheek lost its colour.

  “Beware, Prince!” she said in angry tones, and with a smile as threatening as the, light clouds which announced the coming tempest, “no one except those present at Lady Hamilton’s entertainment will be invited to the Court festivals.”

  “Alas! Madame,” replied Caracciolo with perfect serenity, “but my poor sister-in-law is so seriously ill that she could not be present at these fêtes if they lasted a whole month, nor consequently can her daughter attend them, since a young girl of her age and position cannot, even at the Palace, appear in society without her mother.”

  “Very well, sir,” replied the Queen, unable to control her anger, believe me, this refusal will not be forgotten.”

  Taking Lady Hamilton’s arm, “Come, dear Emma,” she said; adding in a lower voice:

  “Oh! these Neapolitans! How they hate me! I know it well. But I am not behindhand, I execrate them!”

  And she hastened towards the staircase, but Caracciolo preceded her, giving a sign at which the music again burst joyously forth, the cannon thundered, and all the bells pealed together. The Queen with rage in her heart, and Emma with the blush of shame on her brow, descended the steps amidst all outward signs of triumphant joy.

  The King, Queen, Lady Hamilton and Nelson entered the first carriage, the Prince and Princess Royal, Sir William and Acton took their places in the second, the rest followed.

  They drove straight to the church of Santa Chiara, where a solemn Te Deum was performed.

  Then the assembly returned to their carriages and proceeded to the English Embassy, which occupied one of the largest and most beautiful palaces in Naples. The streets were so crowded that the progress was slow, and Nelson, unaccustomed to the noisy demonstrations of a southern race, was intoxicated by the cries of “Long live Nelson,” shouted by thousands of voices, and dazzled by the multitudes of coloured handkerchiefs waved by as many arms.

  But what more astonished him was the audacity of the lazzaroni, who climbed on the steps and on the box and back of the Royal carriage without the coachman, footman, or runners taking the smallest notice of them. They pulled the Royal queue and even tweaked the Royal nose, addressing the king as “Gossip Nasone!” asking when he would sell his fish at Mergellina, or eat maccaroni at St. Charles. It was something widely different from the respectful homage shewn to the English kings, but Ferdinand seemed so happy, and replied so gaily to the jokes and rough speeches with which he was favoured, and bestowed such vigorous thumps on those who pulled his queue too rudely, that Nelson concluded it signified the excesses of spoilt children with a too indulgent father rather than any intentional rudeness or impertinence.

  The entrance to the Embassy had been transformed into an immense triumphal arch crowned by the new Coat of Arms which the King of England had just conferred on Nelson along with the title of Baron Nelson of the Nile. At each side stood a gilt Venetian mast with a long, crimson pennon floating from the top bearing the legend, “Horatio Nelson,” in letters of gold. And the staircase was an archway of laurels starred with bouquets of the costliest flowers forming the monogram H. N. These initials were seen everywhere, they adorned the livery buttons of the servants, the china dinner service, even the table napkins, and the immense palace appeared full of floating perfumes and invisible melody like the enchanted garden of Armida.

  On the announcement, “Their Majesties are served,” the dinner began, Nelson being placed facing the King between the Queen and Lady Hamilton.

  The light of thousands of tapers was reflected in the mirrors, and shone from the candelabra upon gold and silver embroideries, bringing sparks of many colours from jewels, diamond crosses and stars, and seeming to invest the illustrious guests with the sort of aureole which, in the eyes of an enslaved nation, sets apart kings, queens and princes as a race of demi-gods, or at least of superior and privileged beings.

  A toast was given at each course, the King setting the example by proposing the “Glorious Reign, the cloudless prosperity, and the long life of his beloved cousin and august ally, George III., King of England.” In defiance of etiquette, the Queen herself proposed the health of Lord Nelson, the “Liberator of Italy,” to whom Emma Hamilton passed the glass which she had touched with her lips; and each toast was received with cheers and applause which seemed to rend the roof. The enthusiasm increased until the dessert was arrived at, when an unexpected circumstance heightened it into delirium.

  The guests were only awaiting the King’s signal for rising. He rose and all followed his example, but he remained standing in his place, while the most splendid voices of the St. Charles’ theatre, accompanied by the whole orchestra, sang the solemn anthem of “God Save the King.” Each verse was furiously applauded, especially the last, when unexpectedly a voice, clear, pure and sonorous rose above the din and sang solo another verse, added expressly for the occasion:

  “Joignous-nous, pour fêter la gloire

  Du favori de la Victoire

  Du Français l’effroi!

  Des Pharaons l’antique terre

  Chante avec la noble Angleterre,

  De Nelson orgueilleuse mère:

  ‘Dieu Sauve la Roi!’”

  These lines were received with thunders of applause, until suddenly the words died on the lips of the guests who turned terrified eyes towards the door as if the spectre of Banquo or the statue of the Commander had suddenly appeared on the threshold.

  A man of great height and threatening aspect, stood framed in the doorway, in the centre of a blaze of light which shewed every detail of that severe and magnificent costume worn in the early days of the French Republic, the blue coat, red waistcoat embroidered with gold, the tight white pantaloons and highboots. His left hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his right was held inside his coat, and, unpardonable insolence! his head was covered with the three-cornered hat, on which rested the tricolour plume, the emblem of a Revolution which raised the nation to the height of a throne and brought kings to the scaffold. He was Garat, the Ambassador of France, the man who had read the sentence of death to Louis XVI. in the Temple. The effect produced by-such an apparition at such a moment may be imagined.

  A death-like silence, which no one dared to break, prevailed in the hall, until with a firm and clear voice the Ambassador spoke:

  “Notwithstanding my experience of the ceaseless treachery of this lying Court of the Two Sicilies, I still doubted; I wished to see with my own eyes, to hear with my own ears. I have seen and I have heard. More plain-speaking than that Roman, who, in a fold of his toga offered Peace or War to the Senate of Carthage, I bring you only War, for you have to-day denied and rejected Peace. Therefore, King Ferdinand, Queen Caroline have the war you desire, but I warn you that it will be a war of extermination in which, in spite of the hero of this feast, in spite of the impious Power which he represents, you will lose both throne and life. I leave this perjured town; close your gates behind me; let your forts bristle with cannon and assemble your fleets in your ports. The vengeance of France may be slow but you will not make it less inevitable or less terrible, for everything will fall before this-war-cry of the Great Nation, ‘Long live the Republic! ‘“

  Leaving the modern Belshazzar and his terrified guests shrinking from the three words which echoed through the hall, and which each thought must be traced in flame on the walls, the herald, who, like him of old, had thrown the flaming and bloody javelin, symbol of War, on the hostile soil, slowly withdrew, the scabbard of his sword resounding on the steps of the marble staircase.

  Hardly had these sounds died away, when they were succeeded by those caused by the wheels of a post-chaise departing as fast as four vigorous horses could take it.

  CHAPTER II.

  THE ENVOY FROM ROME.

  A SMALL door in a dwelling situate in the most lonely part of the ascent to Pausilippo, was opened from the inside, and a man emerged. He followed a narrow path which turned downwards, descending rapidly towards the sea, and leading straight to the “Palace of Queen Joanna,” a curious ruin which covered the top of a rock incessantly washed by the waves, which at high-tide penetrated the lower rooms of an unfinished building which had arrived at decrepitude without having ever enjoyed life. The Neapolitans, wholly regardless of the fact that its architecture plainly proved that it dated only from the seventeenth century, persisted in attributing it to Queen Joanna of evil memory, but it had, in fact, been built by the Duke of Medina, a favourite of Olivarez, who on his master’s downfall had been obliged to return to Spain, leaving this unfinished palace to become, so it was said, the hiding-place of evil-doers, and the haunt of evil spirits.

  The pathway ended abruptly on the edge of a rock overhanging an abyss some twelve feet in depth. At present, however, the path was continued by a narrow plank, the other end of which rested on a window sill on the first floor of the palace, forming a bridge something like the one to be crossed in order to arrive at the Mohammedan Paradise.

  The man in the mantle nevertheless walked straight over it with a carelessness which indicated full acquaintance with his road, but the instant he arrived at the window another man appeared inside presenting a pistol at his breast. This was evidently the usual precaution, for the newcomer did not trouble himself in the least, but made a slight masonic sign and murmured the half of a word which the other finished, standing aside as he did so, in order to allow his visitor to descend into the room. Arrived there, the latter wished to relieve the sentry in his post, in order to await the next arrival as was apparently the custom, just as in the Royal mausoleum at St. Denis, the late King of France awaits the coming of his successor at the top of the staircase.

  “No need,” replied the other, “we are all here except Velasco, who cannot come before midnight.” Thereupon both applied themselves to pulling over the plank which had served as a drawbridge, and placing it against the wall. Having thus guarded against intruders they disappeared in the darkness, more dense within the ruins than without.

  But, however great the gloom, it presented no difficulty to the two friends, who plunged without hesitation into a sort of corridor which here and there admitted a little light through the cracks in the ceiling. It led them to a staircase, deprived of all handrail, but sufficiently wide to be used without danger, and which ended in a hall overlooking the sea in one of the empty window spaces of which a human form could be discerned from within, though invisible from without. It turned round at the sound of their footsteps.

  “Are we all here?” enquired the shadowy form.

  “Yes, all,” replied two voices at once.

  “Then,” said the shadow, “there only remains the envoy from Rome to wait for.”

  “And,” replied the man with the mantle, “if he is much later I doubt whether he can come at all — to-night at any rate.” And he glanced out at the waves, already white with foam under the first breath of the coming scirocco.

  “True, the sea is angry,” replied the shadow, “but, if he be indeed the sort of man promised us by Hector, he will not be stopped by a small thing like that.”

  “A small thing, Gabriel! Do you know of what you are talking? The South wind is rising, in another hour the sea will be impassable. I am not the nephew of Admiral Caracciolo for nothing.”

  “If he cannot come by sea he will come by land, if he cannot come in a boat he will swim, if he cannot swim he will take a balloon,” said a youthful and fresh voice. “I know my man; I have seen him at work. If he has said to General Championnet, ‘I will go,’ go he will, if it has to be through all hell fire.”

  “Any how, we are not losing time,” said he of the mantle, striking his repeater, “the rendezvous is between eleven and midnight, and as you hear, it is not yet eleven.”

  “Very well,” said the admiral’s nephew, “as I am the youngest, it is my business to keep guard here and yours, being older and wiser, to go and deliberate. Go down then to the council chamber, I will remain here, and when I see a boat with a light at its prow I will let you know.”

  “There is nothing to deliberate upon, only a certain number of facts to exchange. Don Nicolino may be a fool but his advice is good.”

  “If you really think me a fool,” said Nicolino, “then there are four men here who are still greater fools than I am, because, knowing me to be a fool, they yet admit me to a share in their councils. For, my friends, call yourselves what you will, you are simply Free Masons, members of a prescribed sect, and you are plotting the downfall of King Ferdinand and the establishment of a Republic, which means high treason, which means death. As to that, Hector Caraffa — who is an aristocratic Danton — and I despise it, because, being nobles, we should only be beheaded, an accident which is no slur on our coat of arms; but as for you, Manthonnet — born leader of men — and you, Schipani — instrument of fate — and Cirillo — man of science — who is below, as you are only courageous, meritorious and of distinguished talent, being worth some hundreds of us, but having the misfortune to be plebeians, you will just simply be hanged. Ah, my friends! I shall laugh when from the guillotine I see you dangling at the end of your halters, always supposing that the illustrious Don Pasquale di Simone has not, by the Queen’s orders, already disposed of me otherwise. Go then, deliberate, and when there is something impossible to be done, which only a fool would undertake, then you can think of me.”

  The others probably agreed, for, half laughing, half shrugging their shoulders they left Nicolino at his window and descended a winding staircase on the steps of which fell the light of a lamp in a room below. It was beneath the level of the sea, and had probably been intended for the wine cellar of the palace. It was now occupied by a man who sat absorbed in melancholy thought at a stone table. His open mantle revealed a face pale and worn with watching, before him were papers, pens and ink, and a pair of pistols and a dagger lay within reach. He was the famous doctor, Domenico Cirillo.