Lord Byron was fast becoming a devil, and with that devil the Leigh Hunts had to live. Even without the shock of Percy Shelley’s death, the idea of living with Byron was an impossible proposition. Grief made Byron more withdrawn and edgy. Grief made Hunt more pettish, uneasy, and self-justificatory. The wren and the eagle had to co-exist in a state of grief, without the help of their old peacemaker and intermediary. Shelley wrote in April 1822 in the ‘firm hope’ that they had already sailed, but it was 13 May when Hunt’s new vessel caught a fair wind and, amid farewells from Plymouth friends, set out for Leghorn. Marianne was ill, but Hunt was abrim with delight at the ever-diverting sea-scape. He kept repeating that magical word ‘Mediterranean’, the sea of Virgil and Homer.