of the table, facing the Colonel. This Sicilian was a little woman
named Rosina, very dark, but with all the fire of the Southern sun in
her black almond-shaped eyes. At this moment she was deplorably thin;
her face was covered with dust, like fruit exposed to the drought of a
highroad. Scarcely clothed in rags, exhausted by marches, her hair in
disorder, and clinging together under a piece of a shawl tied close
over her head, still she had the graces of a woman; her movements were
engaging, her small rose mouth and white teeth, the outline of her
features and figure, charms which misery, cold, and neglect had not
altogether defaced, still suggested love to any man who could think of
a woman. Rosina had one of those frames which are fragile in
appearance, but wiry and full of spring. Her husband, a gentleman of
Piedmont, had a face expressive of ironical simplicity, if it is
allowable to ally the two words. Brave and well informed, he seemed to
know nothing of the connections which had subsisted between his wife
and the Colonel for three years past. I ascribed this unconcern to
Italian manners, or to some domestic secret; yet there was in the
man's countenance one feature which always filled me with involuntary
distrust. His under lip, which was thin and very restless, turned down
at the corners instead of turning up, and this, as I thought, betrayed
a streak of cruelty in a character which seemed so phlegmatic and
indolent.

"As you may suppose the conversation was not very sparkling when I
went in. My weary comrades ate in silence; of course, they asked me
some questions, and we related our misadventures, mingled with
reflections on the campaign, the generals, their mistakes, the
Russians, and the cold. A minute after my arrival the colonel, having
finished his meagre meal, wiped his moustache, bid us good-night, shot
a black look at the Italian woman, saying, 'Rosina?' and then, without