Moods
defiance, carrying disorder and dismay to the assailants, joy and wonder
to the nearly exhausted defenders. Wonder, for well they knew the gun
had stood silent and unmanned since the retreat of the enemy two days
before, and this unexpected answer to their prayers seemed Heaven-sent.
Those below looked up as they fought, those above looked down as they
feared, and midway between all saw that a single man held the gun. A
stalwart figure, bareheaded, stern faced, sinewy armed, fitfully seen
through clouds of smoke and flashes of fire, working with a silent
energy that seemed almost superhuman to the eyes of the superstitious
souls, who believed they saw and heard the convent's patron saint
proclaiming their salvation with a mighty voice.
This belief inspired the Italians, caused a panic among the Croats, and
saved the town. A few rounds turned the scale, the pursued became the
pursuers, and when the reinforcement arrived there was little for it to
do but join in the rejoicing and salute the brave cannoneer, who proved
to be no saint, but a stranger come to watch the battle, and thus
opportunely lend his aid.
Enthusiastic were the demonstrations; vivas, blessings, tears,
handkissing, and invocation of all the saints in the calendar, till it
was discovered that the unknown gentleman had a bullet in his breast
and was in need of instant help. Whereupon the women, clustering about
him like bees, bore him away to the wounded ward, where the inmates rose
up in their beds to welcome him, and the clamorous crowd were with
difficulty persuaded to relinquish him to the priest, the surgeon, and
the rest he needed. Nor was this all; the crowning glory of the event to
the villagers was the coming of the Chief at nightfall, and the scene
about the stranger's bed. Here the narrator glowed with pride, the women
in the group began to sob, and the men took off their caps, with black
eyes glittering through their tears.
"Excellenza, he who had fought for us like a tempest, an angel of doom,
lay there beside my cousin Beppo, who was past help and is now in holy
Paradise--Speranza was washing the smoke and powder from him, the wound
was easy--death of my soul! may he who gave it die unconfessed! See you,
I am there, I watch him, the friend of Excellenza, the great still man
who smiled but said no word to us. Then comes the Chief,--silenzio, till
I finish!--he comes, they have told him, he stays at the bed, he looks
down, the fine eye shines, he takes the hand, he says low--'I thank
you,'--he lays his cloak,--the gray cloak we know and love so well--over
the wounded breast, and so goes on. We cry out, but what does the
friend? Behold! he lifts himself, he lays the cloak upon my Beppo, he
says in that so broken way of his--'Comrade, the honor is for you who
gave your life for him, I give but a single hour.' Beppo saw, heard,
comprehended; thanked him with a glance, and rose up to die crying,
'Viva Italia! Viva Garibaldi!'"
The cry was caught up by all the listeners in a whirlwind of
enthusiastic loyalty, and the stranger joined in it, thrilled with an
equal love and honor for the Patriot Soldier, whose name upon Italian
lips means liberty.
"Where is he now, this friend of mine, so nearly lost, so happily
found?"
A dozen hands pointed to the convent, a dozen brown faces lighted up,
and a dozen eager voices poured out directions, messages, and
benedictions in a breath. Ordering his carriage to follow presently, the
traveller rapidly climbed the steep road, guided by signs he could not
well mistake. The convent gate stood open, and he paused for no
permission to enter, for looking through it, down the green vista of an
orchard path, he saw his friend and sprang to meet him.
"Adam!"
"Geoffrey!"
"Truant that you are, to desert me for ten days, and only let me find
you when you have no need of me."
"I always need you, but am not always needed. I went away because the
old restlessness came upon me in that dead city Rome. You were happy
there, but I scented war, followed and found it by instinct, and have
had enough of it. Look at my hands."
He laughed as he showed them, still bruised and blackened with the hard
usage they had received; nothing else but a paler shade of color from
loss of blood, showed that he had passed through any suffering or
danger.
"Brave hands, I honor them for all their grime. Tell me about it, Adam;
show me the wound; describe the scene, I want to hear it in calm
English."
But Warwick was slow to do so being the hero of the tale, and very brief
was the reply Moor got.
"I came to watch, but found work ready for me. It is not clear to me
even now what I did, nor how I did it. One of my Berserker rages
possessed me I fancy; my nerves and muscles seemed made of steel and
gutta percha; the smell of powder intoxicated, and the sense of power
was grand. The fire, the smoke, the din were all delicious, and I felt
like a giant, as I wielded that great weapon, dealing many deaths with a
single pair of hands."
"The savage in you got the mastery just then; I've seen it, and have
often wondered how you managed to control it so well. Now it has had a
holiday and made a hero of you."
"The savage is better out than in, and any man may be a hero if he will.
What have you been doing since I left you poring over pictures in a
mouldy palace?"
"You think to slip away from the subject, do you? and after facing death
at a cannon's breach expect me to be satisfied with an ordinary
greeting? I won't have it; I insist upon asking as many questions as I
like, hearing about the wound and seeing if it is doing well. Where is
it?"
Warwick showed it, a little purple spot above his heart. Moor's face
grew anxious as he looked, but cleared again as he examined it, for the
ball had gone upward and the wholesome flesh was already healing fast.
"Too near, Adam, but thank God it was no nearer. A little lower and I
might have looked for you in vain."
"This heart of mine is a tough organ, bullet-proof, I dare say, though I
wear no breastplate."
"But this!" Involuntarily Moor's eye asked the question his lips did not
utter as he touched a worn and faded case hanging on the broad breast
before him. Silently Warwick opened it, showing not Sylvia's face but
that of an old woman, rudely drawn in sepia; the brown tints bringing
out the marked features as no softer hue could have done, and giving to
each line a depth of expression that made the serious countenance
singularly lifelike and attractive.
Now Moor saw where Warwick got both keen eyes and tender mouth, as well
as all the gentler traits that softened his strong character; and felt
that no other woman ever had or ever would hold so dear a place as the
old mother whose likeness he had drawn and hung where other men wear
images of mistress or of wife. With a glance as full of penitence as the
other had been of disquiet, Moor laid back the little case, drew bandage
and blouse over both wound and picture, and linked his arm in Warwick's
as he asked--
"Who shot you?"
"How can I tell? I knew nothing of it till that flock of women fell to
kissing these dirty hands of mine; then I was conscious of a stinging
pain in my shoulder, and a warm stream trickling down my side. I looked
to see what was amiss, whereat the good souls set up a shriek, took
possession of me, and for half an hour wept and wailed over me in a
frenzy of emotion and good-will that kept me merry in spite of the
surgeon's probes and the priest's prayers. The appellations showered
upon me would have startled even your ears, accustomed to soft words.
Were you ever called 'core of my heart,' 'sun of my soul,' or 'cup of
gold'?"
"Cannonading suits your spirits excellently; I remember your telling me
that you had tried and liked it. But there is to be no more of it, I
have other plans for you. Before I mention them tell me of the interview
with Garibaldi."
"That now is a thing to ask one about; a thing to talk of and take
pride in all one's days. I was half asleep and thought myself dreaming
till he spoke. A right noble face, Geoffrey--full of thought and power;
the look of one born to command others because master of himself. A
square strong frame; no decorations, no parade; dressed like his men,
yet as much the chief as if he wore a dozen orders on his scarlet
shirt."
"Where is the cloak? I want to see and touch it; surely you kept it as a
relic?"
"Not I. Having seen the man, what do I care for the garment that covered
him. I keep the hand shake, the 'Grazia, grazia,' for my share. Poor
Beppo lies buried in the hero's cloak."
"I grudge it to him, every inch of it, for not having seen the man _I_
do desire the garment. Who but you would have done it?"
Warwick smiled, knowing that his friend was well pleased with him for
all his murmuring. They walked in silence till Moor abruptly asked--
"When can you travel, Adam?"
"I was coming back to you to-morrow."
"Are you sure it is safe?"
"Quite sure; ten days is enough to waste upon a scratch like this."
"Come now, I cannot wait till to-morrow."
"Very good. Can you stop till I get my hat?"
"You don't ask me why I am in such haste."
Moor's tone caused Warwick to pause and look at him. Joy, impatience,
anxiety, contended with each other in his countenance; and as if unable
to tell the cause himself, he put a little paper into the other's hand.
Only three words were contained in it, but they caused Warwick's face
to kindle with all the joy betrayed in that of his friend, none of the
impatience nor anxiety.
"What can I say to show you my content? The months have seemed very long
to you, but now comes the reward. The blessed little letter! so like
herself; the slender slip, the delicate handwriting, the three happy
words,--'Geoffrey, come home.'"
Moor did not speak, but still looked up anxiously, inquiringly; and
Warwick answered with a glance he could not doubt.
"Have no fears for me. I share the joy as heartily as I shared the
sorrow; neither can separate us any more."
"Thank heaven for that! But, Adam, may I accept this good gift and be
sure I am not robbing you again? You never speak of the past, how is it
with you now?"
"Quite well and happy; the pain is gone, the peace remains. I would not
have it otherwise. Six months have cured the selfishness of love, and
left the satisfaction which nothing can change or take away."
"But Sylvia, what of her, Adam?"
"Henceforth, Sylvia and Ottila are only fair illustrations of the two
extremes of love. I am glad to have known both; each has helped me, and
each will be remembered while I live. But having gained the experience I
can relinquish the unconscious bestowers of it, if it is not best to
keep them. Believe that I do this without regret, and freely enjoy the
happiness that comes to you."
"I will, but not as I once should; for though I feel that you need
neither sympathy nor pity, still, I seem to take so much and leave you
nothing."
"You leave me myself, better and humbler than before. In the fierce half
hour I lived not long ago, I think a great and needful change was
wrought in me. All lives are full of such, coming when least looked for,
working out the end through unexpected means. The restless, domineering
devil that haunted me was cast out then; and during the quiet time that
followed a new spirit entered in and took possession."
"What is it, Adam?"
"I cannot tell, yet I welcome it. This peaceful mood may not last
perhaps, but it brings me that rare moment--pity that it is so rare, and
but a moment--when we seem to see temptation at our feet; when we are
conscious of a willingness to leave all in God's hand, ready for
whatever He may send; feeling that whether it be suffering or joy we