of handkerchiefs,
and then the men burst into song, a song shouted by fifty strong voices.

Addio, mia bella, addio,
L'armata se ne va.

The soldiers were all clustered together at the prow, among piles of
bags and barrels, some sitting, some lying down, others standing, and
all singing at the top of their voices to the dull accompaniment of the
paddles as the steamer glided straight towards that background of sky,
against which rose the pointed hills of Ispra, dividing the immense
expanse of water from the Ticino beyond. The young men would soon be
crossing the Ticino, probably to the cry of "Savoy for ever!" and amidst
the fury of cannonading. Death was awaiting many of them down there
under that clear sky, but all sang gaily, and only the dull noise of the
paddles seemed to be aware of their fate. The free hills of Piedmont,
past which the boat was gliding, although they stood in the shadow,
seemed to shine with pride and satisfaction at having given their sons
to the captive hills of Lombardy, which wore an air of tragedy, although
illumined by the sun. Luisa felt her blood begin to tingle, felt her
once ardent patriotism begin to stir. And those mothers who had seen
their sons depart thus? She foresaw whither her thoughts were tending,
and hastened to assure herself that she also would gladly have given a
son to Italy, that the grief of those mothers could not in any way be
compared to hers. But what a difference there was between reading a
letter in Valsolda, telling of the war, and feeling the very breath,
hearing the very noise of war all about her, feeling it in the air
itself! In the quiet of Valsolda, war was a shadow without substance;
here the shadow became incarnate. Here Luisa's personal grief, that
immense grief which filled the lifeless air surrounding her in Oria,
seemed to shrink before the emotion of many, and her consciousness of
this gave her an indefinable sense of discomfort and trouble. Was it the
dread of losing a part of her own grief, a part, as it were, of herself?
Was it the desire to escape from a comparison from which she shrank? At
the same time the idea that Franco was going to this war, the idea that
had affected her so slightly in Valsolda, was now assuming a new aspect
of reality in her mind, was making her heart quiver, and it also was
wrestling with the image of the cemetery of Oria. For the first time
this image of the past was no longer the one, all-powerful master of he