One night, in a little street through which
we passed to our ferry, there came a wild
rush before us, of a woman screaming for
help, and pursued by her husband with a
knife in his hand; their children, shrieking
piteously, came after them. The street was
crowded with people and soldiers, but no one
put out his hand; and the man presently
overtook his wife and stabbed her in the
back. We only knew of the rush, but what
it all meant we could not tell till we saw the
woman bleeding from the stab, which, hap-
pily, was slight. Inquiry of the bystanders
developed the facts, but, singularly enough,
scarcely a word of pity. It was entirely a
family affair, it seemed: the man, poor little
fellow, had a mistress, and his wife had mad-
dened him with reproaches. Come si fa?
He had to stab her. The woman's case was
not one that appealed to popular compassion,
and the only words of pity for her which I
heard were expressed by the wife of a fruit-
erer, whom her husband angrily silenced.

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