The Captain was right. He could do nothing. The travellers would have to swallow their rage.
[Illustration: Genoa, The Superb.]
Imagine them looking all day at the loveliest of Italian scenes-- the glorious city of Genoa, with all its historic associations!-- the city of the Dorias, the home of Columbus, even now the scene of events upon which the eyes of all the world were fastened.
Imagine them looking upon all this, and only looking, unable to go near; seeing all the preparations for war, but unable to mingle with the warriors. To pace up and down all day; to shake their fists at the scene; to fret, and fume, and chafe with irrepressible impatience; to scold, to rave, to swear--this was the lot of the unhappy tourists.
High in the startled heavens rose the thunder of preparations for the war in Lombardy. They heard the sounds, but could not watch the scene near at hand.
The day was as long as an ordinary week, but at length it came to an end. On the following morning steam was got up, and they went to Leghorn.
"I suppose they will play the same game on us at Leghorn," said Dick, mournfully.
"Without doubt," said Buttons. "But I don't mind; the bitterness of Death is past. I can stand any thing now."
Again the same tantalizing view of a great city from afar. Leghorn lay inviting them, but the unlucky passport kept them on board of the vessel. The Senator grew impatient, Mr. Figgs and the Doctor were testy; Dick and Buttons alone were calm. It was the calmness of despair.