ion than Philip's
might have pictured a youth of splendid hope, for he must have been
entering upon manhood in 1848 when kings, remembering their brother of
France, went about with an uneasy crick in their necks; and perhaps that
passion for liberty which passed through Europe, sweeping before it what
of absolutism and tyranny had reared its head during the reaction from the
revolution of 1789, filled no breast with a hotter fire. One might fancy
him, passionate with theories of human equality and human rights,
discussing, arguing, fighting behind barricades in Paris, flying before
the Austrian cavalry in Milan, imprisoned here, exiled from there, hoping
on and upborne ever with the word which seemed so magical, the word
Liberty; till at last, broken with disease and starvation, old, without
means to keep body and soul together but such lessons as he could pick up
from poor students, he found himself in that little neat town under the
heel of a personal tyranny greater than any in Europe. Perhaps his
taciturnity hid a contempt for the human race which had abandoned the
great dreams of his youth and now wallowed in sluggish ease; or perhaps
these thirty years of revolution had taught him that men are unfit for
liberty, and he thought that he had spent his life in the pursuit of that
which was not worth the finding. Or maybe he was tired out and waited only
with indifference for the release of death.

One day Philip, with the bluntness of his age, asked him if it was true he
had been with Garibaldi. The old man did not seem to attach any importance
to the question. He answered quite quietly in as low a voice as usual.

"Oui, monsieur."

"They say you were in the Commune?"

"Do they? Shall we get on with our work?"

He held the book open and Philip, intimidated, began to translate the
passage he had prepared.

One day Monsieur Ducroz seemed to be in great pain. He had been scarcely
able to drag himself up the many stairs to Philip's room: and when he
arrived sat down heavily, his sallow face drawn, with beads of sweat on
his forehead, trying to recover himself.

"I'm afraid you're ill," said Philip.

"It's of no consequence."

But Philip saw that he was suffering, and at the end of the hour asked
whether he would not prefer to give no more lessons till he was better.

"No," said the old man, in his even low voice. "I prefer to go on while I
am able."

Philip, morbidly nervous when he had to make any reference