f soldier-like
authority.

Very slowly--very reluctantly--as though he were forced to the action
by some strange magnetic influence which he had no power to withstand,
he loosened his right arm from the dead form it clasped so
pertinaciously, and stretched forth the hand as commanded. Humbert
caught it firmly within his own and held it fast--then looking the poor
fellow full in the face, he said with grave steadiness and simplicity,

"There is no death in love, my friend!"

The young man's eyes met his--his set mouth softened--and wresting his
hand passionately from that of the king, he broke into a passion of
weeping. Humbert at once placed a protecting arm around him, and with
the assistance of one of his attendants raised him from the bed, and
led him unresistingly away, as passively obedient as a child, though
sobbing convulsively as he went. The rush of tears had saved his
reason, and most probably his life. A murmur of enthusiastic applause
greeted the good king as he passed through the little throng of persons
who had witnessed what had taken place. Acknowledging it with a quiet
unaffected bow, he left the house, and signed to the beccamorti, who
still waited outside, that they were now free to perform their
melancholy office. He then went on his way attended by more heart-felt
blessings and praises than ever fell to the lot of the proudest
conqueror returning with the spoils of a hundred battles. I looked
after his retreating figure till I could see it no more--I felt that I
had grown stronger for the mere presence of a hero--a man who indeed
was "every inch a king." I am a royalist--yes. Governed by such a
sovereign, few men of calm reason would be otherwise. But royalist
though I am, I would assist in bringing about the dethronement and
death of a mean tyrant, were he crowned king a hundred times over! Few
monarchs are like Humbert of Italy--even now my heart warms when I
think of him--in all the distraction of my sufferings, his figure
stands out like a supreme embodied Beneficent Force surrounded by the
clear light of unselfish goodness--a light in which Italia suns her
fair face and smiles again with the old sweet smile of her happiest
days of high achievement--days in which he children were great, simply
because they were EARNEST. The fault of all modern labor lies in the
fact that there is no heart in anything we do--we seldom love our work
for work's sake--we perform it solely for what we can get by i