At last the guns boom again.

Then the score of dragoons--of whom one may truly say, in the words of Tennyson's "Balaclava Charge," that they are "all that are left of--not the 'twelve' hundred"-- come trotting down the Corso from the Piazza del Popolo.

With a quick shuffling march the French troops pass along the street, and form in file, pushing back the crowd to the pavements.

With drawn swords and at full gallop the dragoons ride back through the double line.

Then there is a shout, or rather a long murmur.