The porter received a coin as consolation money for the abuse he had sustained, and the two cousins found themselves in the street.  Saracinesca again asked for an explanation.

“Very simple,” replied San Giacinto.  “Donna Faustina was not at her father’s house, so your son and I separated to continue our search.  Chancing to find myself here—­for I do not know my way about the city—­I learnt the news of the explosion, and was told that two Zouaves had been found dead and had been taken into the hospital.  Fearing lest one of them might have been Gouache, I succeeded in getting in, when I was locked up with the dead bodies, as you have heard.  Gouache, by the bye, was not one of them.”

“It is outrageous—–­” began Saracinesca, but his companion did not allow him to proceed.

“It is no matter,” he said, quickly.  “The important thing is to find Donna Faustina.  I suppose you have no news of her.”

“None.  Giovanni had not come home when the gendarme appeared.”

“Then we must continue the search as best we can,” said San Giacinto.  Thereupon they both got into the prince’s cab and drove away.

It was nearly midnight when a small detachment of Zouaves crossed the bridge of Sant’ Angelo.  There had been some sharp fighting at the Porta San Paolo, at the other extremity of Rome, and the men were weary.  But rest was not to be expected that night, and the tired soldiers were led back to do sentry duty in the neighbourhood of their quarters.  The officer halted the little body in the broad space beyond.

“Monsieur Gouache,” said the lieutenant, “you will take a corporal’s guard and maintain order in the neighbourhood of the barracks—­if there is anything left of them,” he added with a mournful laugh.

Gouache stepped forward and half a dozen men formed themselves behind him.  The officer was a good friend of his.

“I suppose you have not dined any more than I, Monsieur Gouache?”

“Not I, mon lieutenant.  It is no matter.”

“Pick up something to eat if you can, at such an hour.  I will see that you are relieved before morning.  Shoulder arms!  March!”

So Anastase Gouache trudged away down the Borgo Nuovo with his men at his heels.  Among the number there was the son of a French duke, an English gentleman whose forefathers had marched with the Conqueror as their descendant now marched behind the Parisian artist, a young Swiss doctor of law, a couple of red-headed Irish peasants, and two or three others.  When they reached the scene of the late catastrophe the place was deserted.  The men who had been set to work at clearing away the rubbish had soon found what a hopeless task they had undertaken; and the news having soon spread that only the regimental musicians were in the barracks at the time, and that these few had been in all probability in the lower story of the building, where the band-room was situated, all attempts at finding the bodies were abandoned until the next day.