of the eruption, the ravages of the fire. These images crowded up at
the sight of the clarionet player, till the thoughts now grown cold in
his face burned hot within my soul.

The fiddle and the flageolet took a deep interest in bottles and
glasses; at the end of a country-dance, they hung their instruments
from a button on their reddish-colored coats, and stretched out their
hands to a little table set in the window recess to hold their liquor
supply. Each time they did so they held out a full glass to the
Italian, who could not reach it for himself because he sat in front of
the table, and each time the Italian thanked them with a friendly nod.
All their movements were made with the precision which always amazes
you so much at the Blind Asylum. You could almost think that they can
see. I came nearer to listen; but when I stood beside them, they
evidently guessed I was not a working man, and kept themselves to
themselves.

"What part of the world do you come from, you that are playing the
clarionet?"

"From Venice," he said, with a trace of Italian accent.

"Have you always been blind, or did it come on afterwards--"

"Afterwards," he answered quickly. "A cursed gutta serena."

"Venice is a fine city; I have always had a fancy to go there."

The old man's face lighted up, the wrinkles began to work, he was
violently excited.