"O, come now, Uncle Moses," said Frank; "they're all right. What's the use of imagining all sorts of nonsense? Suppose they are delayed a few minutes longer—what of that? They couldn't reckon upon being back in exactly an hour. The guide said, 'about an hour.' You'll have to make some allowance."

Uncle Moses tried to wait longer, and succeeded in controlling himself for about half an hour more. Then he found inaction intolerable, and insisted on Frank and Bob accompanying him on a search for the lost ones. Frank suggested the necessity of going to the convent first, and getting another guide. He left word at the hotel where they had gone, and why, so that David and Clive might follow them, or send word; and then they all three set forth for the convent.

On reaching the place, the first man that they saw was no other than the guide himself. At this sight even Frank was amazed, and a little disturbed. He asked him hurriedly where the boys were.

"De boys?" said the guide. "Haf dey not come to de hotel?"

"No."

"But I did leave dem on de road to go back, and dey did go. Dey must be back."

"But they're not back. And I want to hunt them up," said Frank. "Where was the road where you say you left them?"

"I will go myself and show you de ver place," said the guide. "Do not fear. Dere can come no harm. It is not possibile."

With these words the guide set forth to take them', to the place. These words of the guide added; if possible, to the deep distress and dismay of Uncle Moses. He was only conscious now that the boys were without any guide in some unknown, perhaps dangerous place. If he feared while he supposed that they had a guide, his fears under these new and worse circumstances were far greater.

On the way the guide explained all about it. He told about the tunnel, about the path which he had recommended as a short cut. He declared that it was perfectly straight, and that it was impossible for any one to get lost between Albano and the place where he left them. There was no place, he declared, for them to get lost in. It was quite open—a little valley—that was all.

But this gave no comfort to poor Uncle Moses. He walked along looking ten years older, with his face full of grief. At length the guide came to the path along which he had sent David and Clive, and turning into this, he walked along in the direction where he had seen them go.

"We haf now," he said, "to walk to de hotel at Albano, and you sall find dey did come back, and will be dere at dis moments."

"What a joke it would be," cried Frank, "if they have got back, and have started off after us! I wonder whether they would. Not they. I don't believe it. They're starving, and will think of nothing but their dinners."

But poor Uncle Moses refused to see any "joke" at all. It was a deeply solemn reality to his poor, distracted breast.

At length they came within sight of the house.

As they walked on, there came to their ears a long, shrill yell. All of them started. At first they did not detect the source of the sound. Then it was repeated.

"Hallo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!"

They looked all around. Frank saw two figures, one at each window of the old house.

"Hallo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!"

The cry was repeated. It came from these two figures. Those must be David and Clive; but how in the name of wonder had they got there, and what were they doing? But he said not a word. He merely pointed, and then started off at a full run, followed first by Bob, then by the guide, and last by Uncle Moses, who did not yet comprehend why Frank was running, or where.

A smart run of only a few minutes brought them to the place. There they saw David at one window, and Clive at the other. Both of them appeared to be tremendously excited, and were shouting to them most vociferously, both together, in an utterly confused an unintelligible manner. At length some words in the midst of their outcries became distinguishable.

"Keep back! O, keep back! The wild boar! The wild boar! Run for help! Keep back! You'll be torn to pieces! Keep back! Run for help."

At this Uncle Moses shrank back in spite of himself, and the guide looked much disturbed; but Frank and Bob stubbornly stood their ground.

"What do you mean?" cried Frank. "Don't kick up such a row. What wild boar? Where is he?"

"Underneath!" bawled Clive.

"He's watching us," shouted David.

"He was hid in there, and we came in and waked him. We got up here, and he won't let us out!"

"He'll spring at you if you come any nearer," shouted David.

"Keep back! O, keep back! I hear him now," bawled Clive.

"Go and get help!" cried David. "Get a gun—or something!"

"Help us out soon," cried Clive; "we're starving!"

"Keep back!" cried Clive. do. cried David.

"Go and get help!" cried Clive. do. cried David.

"Get a gun!" cried Clive. do. cried David.

"Help!" cried Clive. do. cried David.

"Take care!" cried Clive. do. cried David.

"He'll tear you to pieces!" cried Clive. do. cried David.

Etc., etc., etc.!

"Come back," said the guide, in evident anxiety. "We are too near. We can do notin', We mas get arm."

"But do you think there really is a wild boar there?" asked Frank.

The guide said nothing, but shook his head solemnly, and looked unutterable things. Mean while he continued to retreat, watching the small door of the old house, and the rest followed him, as they thought he knew better what ought to be done than they did. The guide took up that line of retreat which led towards Albano, and as he did so he watched the door of the house with evident anxiety, as though fearful of seeing at any moment the formidable beast bound forth to rush upon them. But at length, after he had placed a considerable distance between himself and the old house, he began to breathe more freely, and to think about what ought next to be done.

"Do you think it really is a wild boar?" asked Frank once more of the guide.

"Dey did say dat, dey did see him," said he.

"Yes; but how do they know? They never saw a wild boar," objected Frank.

"Any man dat sees a wild boar will know him," said the guide.

"I didn't know that there—were any about here."

"About here?"

"Yes; so near the town, and public roads. I thought that an animal like the wild boar prefers the moat solitary places, and will never come near where men are living."

"Dat is right," said the guide. "Dat is so. Bot sommataime dey go wild—dey lose der young—or sommatin like dat, so dey go wild, and wander, an if dey happen to come near a villa, dey are terrible."

"But how could this one have come here?"

"Italia is full of dem—dey wander about like dis."

"But they live so far off."

"O, no; dis one come from de mountain—not far—dat old house in de valley, just de place for his den."

After this Frank could doubt no longer, although he had been so obstinate in his disbelief. The affair of the previous night had produced a powerful effect on his mind; and he was exceedingly unwilling to allow himself again to be beguiled into a belief in any danger that was not real. Had the guide not believed this so firmly, and insisted on it so strongly, he would have felt certain that the animal in the house was some commonplace one—a goat—a dog—anything, rather than a wild boar. However, as it was, he had nothing left but to believe what was said.

As for Uncle Moses, he was now quite himself again. The boys were safe, at any rate. True, they were confined in the loft of an old house, with a ferocious wild beast barring the way to liberty; but then he reflected that this ferocious wild beast could not get near them. Had it been a bear, the affair would have been most serious; but a wild boar, as he knew, could not climb into a loft. For among the intelligence which David and Clive had managed to communicate, was the very reassuring fact that the boar could not get at them, as the loft was only reached by a ladder. The return to Albano was in every way satisfactory to his feelings, for he saw that this was the only way of delivering the boys, who could not be rescued without some more formidable arms than their own unassisted strength.

In a short time they were back in Albano, and soon the news flew about the town. In accordance with the invariable rule, the story was considerably enlarged as it passed from mouth to mouth, so that by the time it reached the last person that heard it,—a poor old bed-ridden priest, by the way,—it had grown to the following highly respectable dimensions:—

Two wealthy English milors had gone into the Alban tunnel in search of adventures. While down there they had discovered the lair of a wild boar, and had killed the young, the old ones being away. They had then made good their retreat, carrying their slaughtered victims with them. The wild boar had returned with the wild sow, and both, scenting their young pigs' blood in the air, had given chase to the murderers. These last had fled in frantic haste, and had just succeeded in finding a refuge in the old windmill, and in climbing into the upper loft as the infuriated animals came up. Seeing the legs of the murderers just vanishing up into the hole, one of the beasts had leaped madly upward, and had bitten off a portion of the calf of the leg of one of them. Then, in sullen vengeance, the two fierce animals took up their station there, one in the chamber below, the other in front of the door, to guard their prey, and effect their destruction. They had already been there a week. One of the prisoners had died from the effects of his terrible wound, and the other was now dying of starvation. Fortunately, Brother Antonio (the guide) had been told about this in a vision the night before, had visited the surviving milor, had talked with him from a safe distance, had seen the terrible animals, and had now come to Albano to get help towards releasing the unhappy survivor.

From the above it may readily be conjectured that the call for help was not made in vain. The sufferings of the imprisoned captive excited universal sympathy, and the presence of the wild boars in so close proximity, filled all men with a desire to capture them or slay them. The story that was generally believed was one which may be briefly described as occupying a position somewhere about midway between the above startling fiction and the truth. Such as it was, it had the effect of drawing forth the population of Albano as it bad never been drawn forth before; and as they went forth they presented a scene such as those of which the mediaeval legends tell us, where the whole population of some town which had been desolated by a dragon, went forth en masse to do battle with the monster.

So they now marched forth,— Men with scythes. do. " hoes. do. " rakes. do. " shovels. do. " tongs. do. " brooms. do. " bean-poles. do. " carving-knives. do. " umbrellas. do. " stones. do. " earthen pans. do. " bricks. do. " charcoal. do. " chairs. do. " spits. do. " bed-posts. do. " crowbars. do. " augers. do. " spades. do. " stakes. do. " clubs. Men with staves, do. " opera-glasses. do. " sickles. do. " colters. do. " ploughshares. do. " wheelbarrows. do. " pitchforks. do. " posts. do. " beams. do. " bolts. do. " bars. do. " hinges. do. " pokers. do. " saucepans. do. " mallets. do. " hammers. do. " saws. do. " chisels. do. " ropes. do. " chains. do. " grappling irons. together with a miscellaneous collection of articles snatched up at a moment's warning by an excited multitude, men, women, and children, headed by Frank, who wielded triumphantly an old fowling-piece, loaded with a double charge, that could do no damage to any one save the daring individual that might venture to discharge it.



CHAPTER XXVII.

Arma Virumque cano!—The Chase of the Wild Boar!—The Prisoners at the Window.—The Alban Army.—Wild Uproar.—Three hundred and sixty-five Pocket Handkerchiefs.—Flame.—Smoking out the Monster.—A Salamander.

Arma puerosque cano!

Sing, O muse, the immortal Albanian Boar Hunt!

How outside the doomed town of Albano lurked the mighty monster in his lair.

How the frightened messengers roused the people to action.

How the whole population, stimulated to deeds of bold emprise, grasped each the weapon that lay nearest, whether bolt, or bar, or tool of mechanic, or implement of husbandry, and then, joining their forces, went forth to do battle against the Fell Destroyer.

How the pallid victims, imprisoned in the topmost tower, gazed with staring eyes upon the mighty delivering host, and shouted out blessings upon their heads.

How the sight of the pallid victims cheered the bold deliverers, and drew them nearer to the lair of the monster.

And so forth.

Very well.

To resume.

Stationed at the window, David and Clive saw their friends vanish in the direction of Albano, and knew that they had gone for help. This thought so cheered them, that in spite of a somewhat protracted absence, they bore up well, and diversified the time between watchings at the window, and listenings at the head of the ladder. From the window nothing was visible for a long time; but from the head of the ladder there came up at intervals such sounds as indicated that the fierce wild boar was still as restless, as ruthless, as hungry, and as vigilant as ever.

Then came up to their listening ears the same sounds already described, together with hoarser tones of a more pronouncedly grunting description, which showed more truly that the beast was in very truth a wild boar. But Clive did not venture down again, nor did he even mention the subject. His former attempt had been most satisfactory, since it satisfied him that no other attempt could be thought of. In spite of this, however, both the boys had risen to a more cheerful frame of mind. Their future began to look brighter, and the prospect of a rescue served to put them both. into comparative good humor, the only drawback to which was their now ravenous hunger.

At length the army of their deliverers appeared, and David, who was watching at the window, shouted to Clive, who was listening at the opening, whereupon the latter rushed to the other window.

The delivering host drew nigh, and then at a respectable distance halted and surveyed the scene of action.

Frank and Bob came on, however, without stopping, followed by Uncle Moses, after whom came the guide. Frank with his old fowling-piece, Bob with a pitchfork, Uncle Moses with a scythe, and the guide with a rope. What each one proposed to do was doubtful; but our travellers had never been strong on weapons of war, and the generous Alban people seemed to be in the same situation.

As Frank and his companions moved nearer, the rest of the multitude took courage and followed, though in an irregular fashion.

Soon Frank came near enough to speak.

"Is he there yet?" was his first remark.

"Yes," said Clive.

"Where?"

"At the left end of the lower room, under a pile of fagots."

"Can't you manage to drive him out, so that I can get a shot at him?" asked Frank, proudly brandishing his weapon.

"O, no. We can't do anything."

"I wish you could," said Frank.

"I wish we could too." said David, fervently.

Upon this Frank talked with the guide. The question was, what should they do now? The most desirable thing was, to draw the wild beast out of his lair, so that they might have a fair chance with him; but, unfortunately, the wild beast utterly refused to move from his lair.

After some talk with his guide, Frank suggested that a large number of the crowd should go to the rear, and the left end of the house, and strike at it, and utter appalling cries, so as to frighten the wild boar and drive him out. This proposal the guide explained to the crowd, who at once proceeded with the very greatest alacrity to act upon it. Most of them were delighted at the idea, of fighting the enemy in that fashion; and so it happened that the entire crowd took up their station in a dense mass at the rear of the building; and then they proceeded to beat upon the walls of the house, to shout, to yell, and to utter such hideous sounds, that any ordinary animal would simply have gone mad with fright, and died on the spot. But this animal proved to be no ordinary one in this respect. Either he was accustomed to strange noises, or else he had such nerves of steel, that the present uproar affected him no more than the sighing of the gentlest summer breeze; indeed, David and Clive were far more affected, for at the first outbreak of that tumultuous uproar, they actually jumped from the floor, and thought that the rickety old house was tumbling about their ears.

During this proceeding, Frank stood bravely in front of the door, about a dozen yards off, with his rusty fowling-piece; and close beside him stood Bob with his pitchfork, Uncle Moses with his scythe, and the guide with his rope.

"He doesn't care for this at all," said Frank, in a dejected tone. "We must try something else. What shall we do?"

And saying this, he turned once more and talked with the guide.

Meanwhile David and Clive, who had recovered their equanimity, rushed to the opening, and began to assist their friends by doing what they could to frighten the wild boar.

"Shoo-o-o-o-o-o!" said David.

"Hs-s-s-s-s-s-s!" said Clive.

"Bo-o-o-o-o-o-o!" said David.

"Gr-r-r-r-r-r-r!" cried Clive.

But the wild boar did not move, even though the uproar without still continued.

Then Clive went down the ladder a little distance, far enough down so that by bending, his head was below the upper floor. Then he took his hat and hurled it with all his might and main at the pile of fagots.

Then he went up again.

But the wild boar did not move.

Thereupon David went down, and he went a little lower. He took his hat, and uttering a hideous yell, he threw it with all his force at the fagots.

But even this failed to alarm the wild boar. David stood for a moment after this bold deed and listened. The only satisfaction that he had was the sound of a low, comfortable grunt, that seemed to show that the present situation was one which was rather enjoyed than otherwise by this formidable, this indomitable, this invincible beast.

They came back to the windows in despair, and by this time Frank had finished his discussion with the guide. He was looking up anxiously towards them.

"Look here," said he; "that miserable wild boar won't come out. The guide thinks the only way to get at him is to smoke him out. The only trouble is about you. Will the smoke bother yon, do you think?"

"I don't know," said Clive.

"Can you stop up the opening?"

"No."

"Can you keep your heads oat of the windows?"

"We'll try. But I wish you'd only thought of bringing a ladder, so as to get us out first, before smoking him."

"Yes, I wish we had," said Frank, thoughtfully. "But never mind," he added, cheerily, "there's no use going back for one, because, you see, we'll have you out of that long before a ladder could be brought here."

It was only by yelling at the top of their voices that they were able to make themselves heard by one another, for the crowd behind the house still kept up their yells, and knockings, and thumpings, and waited to hear that the wild boar had fled. As the time passed without any such news, they were only stimulated to fresh efforts, and howled more fearfully and yelled more deafeningly.

"There's an awful waste of energy and power about here, somehow," said Frank. "There ought to be some way of getting at that wretched beast, without all this nonsense. Here we are,—I don't know how many of us, but the whole population of a town, at any rate, against one,—and what's worse, we don't seem to make any impression."

Meanwhile the guide had gone off among the crowd, and while Frank was grumbling, he was busying himself among them, and was engaged in carrying out a very brilliant idea that had just suggested itself to him. In a short time he returned with an armful of something, the nature of which Frank could not quite make out.

"What have you got there?" he asked. "What are you going to do?"

"Dey are all handkerchiefs."

"Handkerchiefs?"

"Yes; de handkerchiefs of de population of Albano. Dey are as many as de days of de year."

"I should think so," cried Frank, in amazement. "But what are you going to do with them?"

"Do wit dem? I am going to make a smoke."

"A smoke? What? Are you going to burn them up?"

"Dere is notin else to burn; so I must burn what I can. See, I make a bundle of dese. I set fire to dem. Dey burn—dey smoke—and de boar smoke out. Aha! he suffocate—he expire—he run!"

"Well, if that isn't the greatest idea I ever heard of!" cried Frank. "Handkerchiefs! Why, you must have hundreds of them in that bundle."

The guide smiled, and made no answer. It was a brilliant idea. It was all his own. He was proud of it. He was pleased to think that the number of them was equal to the number of days in the year. Three hundred and sixty-five handkerchiefs collected from the good, the virtuous, the self-sacrificing people of Albano, who were now yelling and howling as before, at the rear of the house, and diversifying the uproar by loud calls and inquiries about the wild boar.

The guide smiled cheerily over the handkerchiefs. He was so proud of his original idea! He went calmly on, forming them into a rough bundle, doing it very dexterously, so that the bundle might be tight enough to hold together, yet loose enough to burn, Frank watched him curiously. So did Bob. So did Uncle Moses. So did Clive. So did David. Three hundred and sixty-five handkerchiefs! Only think of it!

At last the work was finished. The handkerchiefs rolled up into a big ball, loose, yet cohesive, with ends hanging out in all directions.

"You had better be careful what you do," said Clive. "The end of the chamber below is full of dry fagots. If they were to catch fire, what would come of us?"

"O, alla right," said the guide. "Nevare fear. I trow him so he sall not go near de wood. He make no flame, only de smoke. Nevare fear."

At this the trepidation which these preparations bad excited in the minds of Clive and David, departed, and they watched the subsequent proceedings without a word.

The guide now took the bundle which he had formed out of the handkerchiefs of the population of Albano, and holding it under his left arm, he drew forth some matches, and breaking off one, he struck it against the sole of his boot. It kindled. Thereupon he held the Same to the bundle of handkerchiefs. The flame caught. The bundle blazed. The guide held it for some time till the blaze caught at one after another of the projecting ends of the rolled-up handkerchiefs, and the flame had eaten its way into the mass, and then venturing nearer to the doorway, he advanced, keeping a little on one side, and watching for an opportunity to throw it in. Frank followed with his rusty gun, Bob with his pitchfork, and Uncle Moses with his scythe. All were ready, either for attack or defence, and all the while the bellowing of the crowd behind the house went on uninterruptedly.

The guide reached at length a point about ten feet from the door. Then he poised himself and took aim. Then he threw the burning ball.

But his aim was bad. The ball struck the side of the doorway, and fell outside. In an instant Frank rushed forward, and seizing it, threw it inside. It fell on the floor, and rolled towards the foot of the ladder, where it lay blazing, and smouldering, and sending forth smoke enough to satisfy the most exacting mind.

Then Frank drew back a little, poising his gun, while Bob, Uncle Moses, and the guide, took up their stations beside him.

The smoke rose up bravely from the burning mass; but after all, the result was not what had been desired. It rolled up through the opening above, and gathered in blue masses in the room where Clive and David were imprisoned. They felt the effects of the pungent vapors very quickly, more especially in their eyes, which stung, and smarted and emitted torrents of tears. Their only refuge from this new evil was to thrust their heads as far out of the windows as was possible; and this they did by sitting on the window ledge, clinging to the wall, and projecting their bodies far forward outside of the house. For a time they were sustained by the hope that their enemy below was feeling it worse than they were, and that he would soon relax his vigilant watch and fly. But alas! that enemy showed no signs of flight, and it soon became evident to them and to those outside, that all the smoke went to the upper room, to oppress the prisoners, and but little spread through the lower room; so little, indeed, that the wild boar did not feel any inconvenience in particular.

"Can't you do something?" asked Clive, imploringly.

"We can't stand this much longer," said David, despairingly, with streaming eyes, and choking voice.

Their words sounded faint and low amidst the yelling of the crowd behind the house, who still maintained their stations there, from preference, and kept up their terrific outcry. Amid the yells there came occasional anxious inquiries as to the success of their efforts. At times messengers would venture from the rear to the front to reconnoitre. These messengers, however, were only few in number, and their reconnoitring was of the most superficial description possible.

The latest experiment of the guide was the cause of more frequent and more urgent inquiries. So many handkerchiefs had been invested in this last venture, that it was brought nearer home than before. Each man felt that he was concerned personally in the affair; that, in fact, he, in the shape of a representative of so important a kind as his own handkerchief, was already inside, and assailing the obstinate monster with a more terrible arm than any which had yet been employed—smoke and fire.

But the clamor of the crowd had not so much effect on the little band in front, as the sight of poor Clive and David, who, clinging to the window with their faces flushed, and their eyes red, swollen, and streaming with tears, appeared unable to hold out much longer.

"Do something or other, quick," cried Clive.

"I'll have to jump down," said David.

And both, of them tried to push themselves farther out, while their faces were turned down, and they seemed anxiously measuring with their eyes the distance between themselves and the ground.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

The Salamander inaccessible to Fire.—The last Appeal.—Frank takes Action.—He fires.—Casualty to Frank and Bob.—Onset of the Monster.—Flight.—Tremendous Sensation.—The Guide's Story.—Another Legend of Albano.—On to Rome.

For some time Frank had felt an intolerable impatience, and had been deliberating in his own mind about the best way of ending a scene which was not only painful to the poor prisoners, but humiliating to himself. In spite, however, of the immense odds in favor of the attacking party, Frank could not think of any way of making those odds available under present circumstances, when the last plaintive appeal and the desperate proposal of Clive and David came to his ears. He saw that they were suffering tortures from the smoke, that they could not endure it much longer, and that they would have to make a descent from the window. To prevent this, and the danger that might result from it, Frank resolved upon immediate action.

So he grasped his rusty fowling-piece with a deadly purpose, and rushed to the narrow doorway of the old house. Bob followed at once with his pitchfork, resolved to go wherever Frank led the way, and to stand by him at all hazards. The guide stood looking on. Uncle Moses also stood still, and made a feeble attempt to order the two boys back; but his words were neither heard nor heeded. At this David and Clive stopped in their desperate design, and looked down at Frank and Bob.

Frank stood by the doorway.

He put his head inside, and looked all around, cautiously, yet resolutely. The interior, however, was always a dark place; and now the fumes of blue smoke made it yet darker. But though his eyes saw nothing of the fierce beast, his ears could detect the rustle and the crackle which were produced by the motion of something among the fagots. This noise showed him plainly where it must be.

Thereupon he hesitated no longer.

He raised his rusty fowling-piece to his shoulder!

He took deadly aim!

He fired!

Bang!!!

The flash illumined the dark interior, and the smoke from the gun united with the smoke that was already there. Bat simultaneous with the bang and the flash, Frank felt himself hurled back-ward, and to the ground, knocked down by the recoil of the gun, flat on his back.

Up rushed Bob, full of the deepest anxiety.

But just as he reached the prostrate form of Frank, there was a hurried clatter from within, and then—down he also went—head first—over and over—struck down by some rushing figure that had emerged from the pile of fagots, burst through the doorway, and was now careering wildly over the fields.

Uncle Moses saw that figure, and then hurried up to his two prostrate boys.

David and Clive from their stations at the window saw it, and then instantly hurried down the ladder, and out of the house, where they stood panting and staring wildly at vacancy.

The guide saw it, and as he saw it there came over his face an expression of an utterly indescribable kind. He clasped his hands together, and then uttered a series of exclamations for which the English language, or indeed any other language but the Italian, can afford no equivalent.

While he was thus standing with clasped hands, vociferating and staring, in company with David and Clive, at the receding figure, Frank had sprung to his feet, and so had Bob; Uncle Moses, too, stood gazing at the object of universal interest; and thus all of them stood staring, with feelings that defy description, at the scene before them.

What was this scene that thus held their gaze?

Well, in the first place, there was that valley, already so familiar to David and Clive—a smooth slope on either side, some olive trees near, but beyond that all bare, and no houses visible in that direction. Now, over this open space there was running—so swift and so straight that it was evidently impelled by pain or panic—what?

A little black pig!

A pig, small, as has just been said, an ordinary domestic pig—of no particular breed—the commonest of animals. Moreover, it was black. It was also, undoubtedly, as has just been remarked, either suffering from some of the shot of Frank's rusty gun, or from the terror that might have been excited by its report. And now this little black pig was running as fast as its absurd little legs could carry it—far away across the fields.

"O, holy saints!" cried the guide; "it's the little black pig, that we missed from the convent yesterday morning—the pig—the little black pig—the pig—the pig! Is it possible? O, is it possible?"

Every word of this was heard by the boys. They understood it all now. It seemed also that the little black pig, having accomplished as much mischief as any single pig can ever hope to bring about, was evidently making the best of its way to its home, and steering straight, for the convent. This they saw, and they gazed in silence. Nothing was said, for nothing could be said. They could not even look at one another. David and Clive were of course the most crestfallen; but the others had equal cause for humiliation. After all their gigantic preparations, their cautions advances, and their final blow,—to find their antagonist reduced to this was too much. Now, the fact is, that if it had really been a wild boar, Frank's act would have been the same; and as he acted under the belief that it was so, it was undoubtedly daring, and plucky, and self-sacrificing; but, unfortunately, the conclusion of the affair did not allow him to look upon it in that light.

Now, all this time the crowd behind the house maintained their shouts and outcries. Under the circumstances, this uproar became shockingly absurd, and out of place; so the guide hastened to put an end to it. On the whole, he thought it was not worth while to tell the truth, for the truth would have so excited the good people of Albano, that they would, undoubtedly, have taken vengeance on the strangers for such a disgrace as this. Therefore the guide decided to let his fancy play around the actual fact, and thus it was that the guide's story became an idealized version.

It was something to the following effect:—

The terrible wild boar, he said, had been completely indifferent to their outcry, or had, perhaps, been afraid to come forth and face so many enemies. He (the guide) had therefore determined to try to smoke him out, and had borrowed their handkerchiefs for that purpose, as there were no other combustibles to be had. Of this they were already aware. He had tied these handkerchiefs together in such a way that they would burn, and after setting fire to them, had burled the blazing mass into the house. There it emitted its stifling fumes till they confused, suffocated, frightened, and confounded the lurking wild boar. Then, in the midst of this, the heroic youth, armed with his gun, rushed forward and poured the deadly contents of his piece into the body of the beast. Had it been any other annual, it would undoubtedly have perished; but the wild boar has a hide like sheet iron, and this one was merely irritated by the shot. Still, though not actually wounded, he was enraged, and at the same time frightened. In his rage and fear he started from his lurking-place; he bounded forth, and made a savage attack upon the party in front of the house. They stood their ground firmly and heroically, and beat him off; whereupon, in despair, he turned and fled, vanquished, to his lair in the Alban tunnel.

In this way the guide's vivid imagination saved the travellers from the fury of the Alban people, by preventing that fury, and supplying in its place self-complacency. The Alban people felt satisfied with themselves and with this story. They accepted it as undoubted; they took it to their homes and to their hearts; they enlarged, adorned, improved, and lengthened it out, until, finally, it assumed the amplest proportion, and became one of the most popular legends of the place. What is still more wonderful, this very guide, who had first created it, told it so often to parties of tourists, that he at length grew to believe every word of it himself; and the fact that he had been an actor in that scene never failed to make his story quite credible to his hearers.

At this time, however, he had not advanced so far, and he was able to tell the actual facts of the case to the boys and Uncle Moses.

They were these:—

At the convent they kept a number of pigs, and on the previous day, early in the morning, they had missed the very animal which had created this extraordinary scene. He had escaped in some way from his pen, and had fled for parts unknown. They had searched for him, but in vain. He must have wandered to this old house at the first, and taken up his quarters here until he was so rudely driven out from them. The guide could only hope that the little black pig would learn a lesson from this of the evils of running away from home.

To all this the boys listened without any interest whatever, and did not condescend to make any remarks. The guide himself became singularly uninteresting in their eyes, and they got rid of him as soon as possible, paying him liberally, however for the additional trouble to which they had put him. Uncle Moses also had some words of remonstrance, mingled with congratulation, to offer to David and Clive; but these also were heard in silence. They might have found ample excuse for their delay in this ruined house; but they did not feel inclined to offer any excuses whatever.

The fact is, this reduction of the great wild boar to the very insignificant proportions of a little black pig—commonplace, paltry, and altogether contemptible—was too much for their sensitive natures. It had placed them all in a false position. They were not cowards, but they had all been alarmed by the most despicable of animals. Frank felt profoundly humiliated, and reflected, with a blush, upon the absurd figure that he had made of himself in hesitating so long before such an enemy, and then advancing upon it in such a way. Bob's feelings were very similar. But it was for David and Clive that the deepest mortification was reserved. They had been the cause of it all. It was their vivid imaginations which had conjured up out of nothing a terrible wild beast, which had kept them prisoners there for hours in loneliness and hunger, and which had thrown ridicule upon the population of Albano, by drawing them forth to do battle with one poor little harmless runaway pig.

As they walked back to the hotel, they kept far in the rear of the citizens of Albano; and Uncle Moses began to "improve" the occasion, and moralized in a solemn strain.

"Wal," said he, "my dear boys, I must say that you hev one and all the greatest talent for gittin' yourselves into trouble that I ever see. Ever sence we landed on these ill-fated shores you've ben a-goin' it, and a drivin' of me wild with anxiety; and the only thing I can say is, that thus far your misadventoors hain't turned out so bad as I have feared in each individdool case. In fact thar's allus ben what they call a anticlimax; that is, jest at the moment when thar'd ought to be a te-rific di-saster, thar's ben nothin' but some trivial or laugherble tummination. Now, I'm free to confess, boys, that thus far my fears hev ben gerroundless. I'm free to say that thus far thar hain't ben what we can conscuentionsly call a accident. But what of that? The incidents hev all ben thar. Every individdool thing that can make a accident has ben thar—it's ony the conclusion that has somehow broke down. And now I ask you, boys, what air we goin' to do about it? Is this to go on forever? Is it perrobable that advuss circumstances air goin' to allus eventooate thus? I don't believe it. The pitcher that goes often to the fountain is broke at last, and depend upon it, if you go for to carry on this way, and thrust yourselves in every danger that comes in your way—somethin'll happen—mind I tell you."

This, and much more of the same sort, did Uncle Moses say; but to all of it the boys paid very little attention. In fact, the subject was to all of them so painful a one, that they could not bear to have it brought forward even as the text of a sermon. They only wanted to forget all about it as soon as possible, and let it sink into complete oblivion.

On reaching the hotel they found that it was quite late; but they were eager to go on. Albano, the historic, had lost all its charms for them. They did not wish to remain, a moment longer. They could not hope now to see Rome to advantage, for the daylight would be over long before they could enter the city; still they were determined to go on to Rome, even if they had to enter it after dark. Accordingly, the carriage was made ready as soon as possible; Clive and David procured some fragments of food, which they took into the carriage with them, to devour on their way; and thus they left Albano, and drove on to Rome.



END