15.

the village children called me the little priest because when my
work was done I always crept back to the Church to get away from my
step-father's blows and curses.

"I will make a real priest of him," the Count declared; and that
afternoon, perched on the box of his travelling-carriage, I was
whirled away from the dark scenes of my childhood into a world
where, as it seemed to me, every one was as happy as an angel on
a presepio.

I wonder if you remember the Count's villa? It lies on the shore of
the lake, facing the green knoll of Monte Isola, and overhung by the
village of Siviano, ~~and by~~ without the old parish-church where I said mass for
fifteen happy years. The village hangs on a ledge of the moun-
tain; but the villa dips its foot in the lake, smiling at its re-
flection in the water like a glassy; and bather lingering on the
brink. What an enchanter's palace it seemed to me that day! In our
church up the valley there hung an old brown picture, with a Saint
Sebastian in the foreground; and behind him the most wonderful
palace, with terraced gardens adorned with statues and fountains,
where fine folk in resplendent dresses walked up and down ~~regardless~~
without
~~of~~ the blessed martyr's pangs. The Count's villa, with its ter-
races, its roses, its marble steps descending to the lake, reminded
me of that palace; only instead of being inhabited by wicked people
engrossed in their selfish pleasures, it was the home of the kindest
friends that ever took a poor lad by the hand.

17.

and on holidays I used to visit the family in Milan. Count Andrea was growing up to be one of the handsomest young men imaginable, but a trifle wild and unsteady; and the old Count married him in haste to the daughter of a Venetian noble, who brought as her dower a great estate in Istria. The Countess Gemma, as this lady was called, was as light as thistledown and had an eye like a baby's; but, while she was cooing for the moon, her pretty white hands were always stealing toward something within reach that she had not been meant to have. The old Count was not alert enough to follow these manœuvres; and the Countess, her purposes under a torrent of guileless chatter, as pick-pockets wear long sleeves to conceal their movements. He used to say that her only fault was that one of her aunts had married an Austrian; and this event having taken place before she was born he laughingly acquitted her of any direct complicity in it. She confirmed his good opinion of her by giving her husband two sons; and Roberto showing no inclination to marry, these boys naturally came to be looked on as the heirs of the house.

Meanwhile I had finished my course of studies, and the old Count, on my twenty-first birthday, had appointed me priest of the parish of Siviano. It was the year of Count Andrea's marriage and there were great festivities at the villa. Three years later the old Count died, to the sorrow of his two eldest children. Donna Marianna and Count Roberto closed their apartments in the palace at Milan and withdrew for a year to Siviano. It was then that I first

18.

Donna Marianna was urgent with him to marry, but he always
answered that he had a family in his tenantry, and that, as for a
wife, she had never let him feel the want of one. He had that
musing temper which gives a man a name for coldness; though in fact
he may all the while be storing fuel for a great conflagration.
But to me he whispered another reason for not marrying. A man, he
said, does not take wife and rejoice while his mother is on her
the foreign death-bed; and Italy, his mother, lay dying, with cultures waiting to
tear her apart.

You are too young to know anything of those days, my son; and
how can any one understand them who did not live through them?
Italy lay dying indeed; but Lombardy was her heart, and the heart
still beat, and sent the faint blood creeping to her cold extremi-
ties. Her torturers, weary of their work, had allowed her to fall
into a painless stupour; but just as she was sinking from sleep to
death, heaven sent Radetsky to scourge her back to consciousness; and
at the first sting of his lash she started maimed and bleeding to
her feet.

Ah, those days, those days, my son! Italy — Italy — was
the word on our lips; but the thought in our hearts was just
Austria. We clamoured for liberty, unity, the franchise; but
under our breath we prayed only to smite the white-coats. Remove
the beam from our eye, we cried, and we shall see our salvation
Clearly then! We must in this north
have all liberals & work'd with the
nobles & the men of letters. Gilbert was
our president & his Holiness the new
Pope was sent to be the Janard of our
new crusade. But meanwhile, mind,
all this went on in silence, underground
as it were, while on the surface Lombardy still danced, feasted, married,
and took office under the Austrian. In the iron HOUSE
up on valley there used to be

19.

Ah, those days, those days, my son! Italy — Italy — was
the word on our lips; but the thought in our hearts was just
**Austria**. We clamoured for liberty, unity, the franchise; but
under our breath we prayed only to smite the white-coats. Remove
the beam from our eye, we cried, and we shall see our salvation
clearly enough! We priests in the north were all liberals and work-
ed with the nobles and the men of letters. Gioberti was our brevi-
ary and his Holiness the new Pope was soon to be the Tancred of our
crusade. But meanwhile, mind you, all this went on in silence,
underground as it were, while on the surface Lombardy still danced,
feasted, married, and took office under Austria. In the iron-mines
up our valley there used to be certain miners who stayed below
ground for months at a time; and, like one of these, Roberto remain-
ed buried in his purpose, while life went its way overhead. Though
I was not in his confidence I knew well enough where his thoughts
were, for he went among us with the eye of a lover, the visionary
look of one who hears a Voice. We all heard that Voice, to be sure,
mingling faintly with the other noises of life; but to Roberto it
was already as the roar of mighty waters, drowning every other
sound with its thunder.

On the surface, as I have said, things looked smooth enough.
An Austrian cardinal throned in Milan and an Austrian-hearted Pope
ruled in Rome. In Lombardy, Austria couched like a beast of prey,
ready to spring at our throats if we stirred or struggled. The
Moderates, to whose party Count Roberto belonged, talked of prudence,

20.

compromise, the education of the masses; but if their words were a
velvet sheath their thought was a dagger. For many years, as you
know, the Milanese had maintained an outward show of friendliness
with their rulers. The nobles had accepted office under the vice-
roy, and in the past there had been frequent intermarriage between
the two aristocracies. But now, with few exceptions, the great
houses had closed their doors against official society. Though
some of the younger and more careless, those who must dance and dine
at any cost, still went to the palace and sat beside the enemy at
the opera, fashion was gradually taking sides against them, and
those who had once been laughed at were now as old fogeys were coming to the
assault as patriots. Among these, of course, was Count Roberto, who
for several years had refused to associate with the Austrians, and
had silently resented his easy-going brother's disregard of politi-
cal distinctions. Andrea and Gemma belonged to the moth tribe, who
flock to the brightest light; and Gemma's Istrian possessions, and
her family's connection with the Austrian nobility, gave them a
pretext for fluttering about the vice-regal candle. Roberto let
them go their way, but his own course was a tacit protest against
their conduct. They were always welcome at the palazzo Siviano;
but he and Donna Marianna withdrew from society in order to have an
excuse for not showing themselves at the Countess Gemma's enter-
tainments. If Andrea and Gemma were aware of his disapproval they
were clever enough to notice it; for the rich elder brother who
paid their debts and never meant to marry was too important a person
to be quarrelled with, and that was the political round.
They seemed to think that if he married it would be only to

22.

passed him with her father. Roberto knew the father, a poor Milanese of the noble family of Vignani, who had cut himself off from his own class by accepting an appointment in one of the government offices. As the two passed each other, he saw a group of Austrian officers staring at the girl, and heard one of them say: "Such a choice morsel as that is too good for slaves;" and another answer with a laugh: "Yes, it's a dish for the master's table!"

The girl heard too. She was as white as the hawthorn-flower and he saw the words come out on her cheek like the red mark from a blow. She whispered to her father, but he shook his head and drew her away without so much as a glance at the Austrians. Roberto heard mass and then hastened out and placed himself in the porch of the Cathedral. A moment later the officers appeared, and they too stationed themselves near the doorway. Presently the girl came out on her father's arm. Her admirers advanced and greeted Vignani; and the cringing wretch stood there exchanging compliments with them, while their insolent stare devoured his daughter's beauty.

She, poor thing, shook like a leaf, and her eyes, in avoiding theirs, suddenly encountered Roberto's. Her look was a wounded bird that fluttered to him for shelter. He carried it away in his breast and its live warmth beat against his heart. He thought that Italy had looked at him through those eyes; for love is the wiliest of masqueraders and has a thousand disguises at his command.

Within a month Faustina Vignani was his wife. Donna Marianna and I rejoiced; for we knew he had chosen her because he loved her, and she seemed to us almost worthy of such a choice. As for Count Andrea and his wife, I leave you to guess what ingredients were mingled in the kiss with which they welcomed the bride. They were

29.

it was no secret that Radetzky was strengthening the fortifications. Late in January several leading liberals were arrested and sent into exile, and two weeks later martial law was proclaimed in Milan. At the first arrests several members of the Liberal party had left Milan hastily, and I was not surprised to hear, a few days later, that orders had been given to reopen the villa at Siviano. The Count and Countess arrived there early in February.

It was seven months since I had seen the Countess, and I was struck with the change in her appearance. She was paler than ever, and her step had lost its lightness. Yet she did not seem to share her husband's political anxieties; one would have said that she was hardly aware of them. She seemed wrapped in a veil of lassitude, like Iseo on a still grey morning, when dawn is blood-red on the mountains but a mist blurs its reflection in the lake. I felt as though her soul were slipping away from me, and longed to win her back to my care; but she made her ill-health a pretext for not coming to confession, and for the present I could only wait and carry the thought of her to the altar.

She had been lured at Siviano before I discovered that this drooping Barranquera was only one phase of her humour. Now & then she flung back the cowl of melancholy & faced life with a laugh, and then came a smile which I never forgot. The next moment she was in shadow again, and we felt her muffled thoughts, healing had fruited as the slip. She

33

"Every one must have seen that the Countess is not in her usual health. She has seemed nervous, out of spirits — I have fancied that she might be anxious about your excellency."

He leaned across the table and laid his hand on mine: "Call me Roberto," he said quietly.

There was another pause before he went on, with a growing effort: "Since I saw you this morning, something horrible has happened. After you left I sent for Andrea and Gemma to tell them the news from Vienna and the probability of my being summoned to Milan before night. You know as well as I do that we have reached a crisis. There will be fighting within twenty four hours, if I know my people; and war may follow sooner than we think. Under these circumstances I felt it my duty to leave my affairs in Andrea's hands, and to entrust my wife to his care. Don't look startled," he added with a faint smile. "No reasonable man goes on a journey without leaving his house in someone's charge; and if things take the turn I expect it may be some months before you see me back at Siviano.— But it was not to hear this that I sent for you." He pushed his chair aside and walked up and down the room with his short limping step. "My God!" he broke out wildly, "how can I say it? — When Andrea had heard me, I saw him exchange a look with his wife, and she said with that infernal sweet voice of hers, 'Yes, Andrea, it is our duty.'"

''Your duty?'' I asked, 'What is your duty?'

"Andrea wetted his lips with his tongue and looked at her again; and her eye was like steel.

''Your wife has a lover,'' he said.

36

quit his transgressions. She is in their way, and
Epidio !"

"Consider, my son. They do not love her,
perhaps; but why should they hate her at
such cost-? She has given him no child."

"No child!" he repeated. "But what
if-? She has called lately!" he cried, and
broke off to raffle with the stabbing
knight.

"Roberto! Roberto!" I adjured him.
He jumped up & gripped my arm.
"Epidio! I am believe in her?"

"She is pure as a lily on the altar!"

"Those eyes are the wells of truth — and she has been like a
daughter to Marianna. — Epidio! do I look like an old man?"

"Quiet yourself, Roberto," I entreated.

"Quiet myself? With this sting in my blood? A lover — and
an Austrian lover! Oh, Italy, Italy, my bride!"

"I stake my life on her truth," I cried, "and who knows better
than I? Has her soul not lain before me like the bed of a clear
stream?"

"And if what you saw there was only the reflection of your
faith in her?"

"My son, I am a priest, and the priest penetrates to the soul as the
angel passed through the walls of Peter's prison. I see the truth
in her heart as I see Christ in the host!"

"No, no, she is false!" he cried.

I sprang up terrified. "Roberto, be silent!" I adjured him.

He looked at me with a wild incredulous smile. "Poor simple
man of God!" he said.

"I would not exchange my simplicity for yours — the dupe of
envy's first malicious whisper!"

"Envy — you think that?"

"Is it questionable?"

"You would stake your life on it?"

"My life!"

"Your faith?"

37.

"My faith!"

"Your vows as a priest?"

"My vows —" I stopped and stared at him. He had risen and laid his hand on my shoulder.

"You see now what I would be at," he said quietly. "I must take your place presently in the confessional —"

"My place —?"

"When my wife comes down. You understand me."

"Ah, now you are quite mad!" I cried breaking away from him.

"Am I?" he returned, maintaining his strange composure.

"Consider a moment. She has not confessed to you before since our return from Milan —"

"Her ill-health —"

He cut me short with a gesture. "Yet today she sends for you —"

"In order that she may receive the sacrament with you on the eve of your first separation."

"If that is her only reason her first words will clear her. I must hear those words, Egidio!"

"You are quite mad," I repeated.

"Strange," he said slowly. "You stake your life on my wife's innocence, yet you refuse me the only means of vindicating it!"

"I would give my life for any one of you — but what you ask is not mine to give."

"The priest first — the man afterward?" he sneered.

"Long afterward!"

He measured me with a contemptuous eye. "We laymen are ready to give the last shred of flesh from our bones, but you priests

38.

intend to keep your cassocks whole."

"I tell you my cassock is not mine," I repeated.

"And, by God," he cried, "you are right; for it's mine! Who put it on your back but my father? What kept it there but my charity? Peasant! beggar! Hear his holiness pontificate!"

"Yes," I said, "I was a peasant and a beggar when your father found me; and if he had left me one I might have been excused for putting my hand to any ugly job that my betters required of me; but he made me a priest, and so set me above all of you, and laid on me the charge of your souls as well as mine."

He sat down shaken with dreadful tears. "Ah," he broke out, "would you have answered me thus when we were boys together, and I stood between you and Andrea?"

"If God had given me the strength."

"You call it strength to make a woman's soul your stepping-stone to heaven?"

"Her soul is in my care, not yours, my son. She is safe with me."

"She? But I? I go out to meet death, and leave a worse death behind me!" He leaned over and clutched my arm. "It is not for myself I plead but for her — for her, Egidio! Don't you see to what a hell you condemn her if I don't come back? What chance has she against that slow unsleeping hate? Their lies will fasten themselves to her and suck out her life. You and Marianna are powerless against such enemies."

"You leave her in God's hands, my son."

"Easily said — but, ah, priest, if you were a man! What if

48.

fervent devotion; then he fell into a quiet sleep.

During the weeks that followed I had no time to ask myself the mean-
ing of it all. My one business was to keep him alive if I could.

I fought the fever day and night, and at length it yielded. For
the most part he raved or lay unconscious; but now and then he knew
me for a moment, and whispered "Egidio" with a look of peace.

I had stolen many hours from my duties to nurse him; and as soon as
the danger was past I had to go back to my parish work. Then it
was that I began to ask myself what had brought him to America; but
I dared not face the answer.

On the fourth day, after he had been several hours, I snatched a
moment from my work and climbed to his room. I found him sitting
propped against his pillows, weak as a child but clear-eyed and
quiet. I ran forward and fell into his arms, but his look stopped me.

"Signor parocco," he said, "the doctor tells me that I owe my life to your nursing, and I have to thank you for the kindness you have shown to a friendless stranger."

"A stranger?" I gasped.

He looked at me steadily. "I am not aware that we have met before."

For a moment I thought the fever was on him; but a second
glance convinced me that he was master of himself.

"Roberto!" I cried, trembling.

"You have the advantage of me," he said civilly. "But my name is Roberti, not Roberto."

The floor swam under me and I had to lean against the wall.

"You are not Count Roberto Siviano of Milan?"

50.

in recognizing in me your former friend Count Siviano."

"Roberto!"

He lifted his hand. "Egidio," he said, "I am alone here, and without friends. The companionship, the sympathy of my parish priest would be a most consolation to me, but it must not be the companionship of the paroco of Siviano. Do you understand?"

"Roberto," I cried, "it is too dreadful to understand!"

"Be a man, Egidio," said he with a touch of impatience. "The choice lies with you, and you must make it now. If you are willing to ask no questions, to name no names, to make no allusions to the past, let us live as friends together, in God's name! If not, as soon as my legs can carry me I must be off again. The world is wide, luckily — but why should we be parted?"

I was on my knees at his side in an instant. "We must never be parted!" I cried. "Do as you will with me. Give me your orders and I obey — have I not always obeyed you?"

I felt his hand close sharply on mine. "Egidio!" he admonished me, "no — no — I shall remember. I shall say nothing —"

"Think nothing?"

"Think nothing," I said with a last effort.

"God bless you!" he answered, "I will remember this and in mine..."

My son, for eight years I kept my word to him. We met daily almost, we ate and walked and talked together, we lived like brothers and friends — but without so much as a glance at the past.

How he had escaped from Milan — how he had reached New York — I