It was winter in Milan, turning to the new year--the year of flames for
continental Europe. A young man with a military stride, but out of
uniform, had stepped from a travelling carriage and entered a cigar-shop.
Upon calling for cigars, he was surprised to observe the woman who was
serving there keep her arms under her apron. She cast a look into the
street, where a crowd of boys and one or two lean men had gathered about
the door. After some delay, she entreated her customer to let her pluck
his cloak halfway over the counter; at the same time she thrust a cigar-
box under that concealment, together with a printed song in the Milanese
dialect. He lifted the paper to read it, and found it tough as Russ.
She translated some of the more salient couplets. Tobacco had become a
dead business, she said, now that the popular edict had gone forth
against 'smoking gold into the pockets of the Tedeschi.' None smoked
except officers and Englishmen.

"I am an Englishman," he said.

"And not an officer?" she asked; but he gave no answer. "Englishmen are
rare in winter, and don't like being mobbed," said the woman.

Nodding to her urgent petition, he deferred the lighting of his cigar.
The vetturino requested him to jump up quickly, and a howl of "No smoking
in Milan--fuori!--down with tobacco-smokers!" beset the carriage. He
tossed half-a-dozen cigars on the pavement derisively. They were
scrambled for, as when a pack of wolves are diverted by a garment dropped
from the flying sledge, but the unluckier hands came after his heels in
fuller howl. He noticed the singular appearance of the streets. Bands
of the scum of the population hung at various points: from time to time a
shout was raised at a distance, "Abasso il zigarro! "and "Away with the
cigar!" went an organized file-firing of cries along the open place.