attached to each of
them as an Italian, without having to add the responsibility of being an
eye-witness; and this, that and the other; and, in fine, that anything
might be conceded or pardoned in a well-born young man except the
madness of going to see" (these were the mother's words) "_a poor old
man bombarded_. A fine war! Fine glory, indeed!"

When she had finished the young man gnashed his teeth, tore the journal
to pieces, jumped up from his seat, lighted a lamp and went to shut
himself up in his room, stamping his feet like an Italian actor playing
the part of a furious king.

But in half an hour softly, softly, on tiptoe, he returned to the
dining-room. There was no one there but the father and mother, silent
and sad. He asked pardon of his father, who growled, but suffered him to
press his hand, and then returned to his room, followed by his mother.
"Now we shall have no more of such ideas, shall we?" she said to him
tenderly, laying her hands on his shoulders.

The son answered with a kiss.

The next day he crossed the frontier of the Pontifical States.

As soon as they became aware of it at home there were tears, outbursts,
invectives, suggestions of never receiving him again, of not even
rising from their seats when he returned, of allowing a month to pass
without addressing a word to him, of striking out the item
"pocket-money" from the family budget, and a hundred other things. On
the mother's part these were words, but on the father's serious
intentions. He was not a man to waver; he was good, but stern, and at
times, when he was angry, even terrible: his son knew this, and feared
him. How he had ever been able, therefore, to offer him such an outrage
was inexplicable. The accounts of the 20th of September only served to
embitter the parents more. "He shall feel it," said they between their
teeth. "Let him come!" Their words, their gestures, their plan of
action, had all been thought over and prepared. It would be a severe
lesson.

On the morning of the 22d they were all seated at table when suddenly a
loud knock was heard at the door, and immediately after the son
appeared, red in the face, out of breath, bronzed by the sun, standing
erect and motionless on the threshold. No one moved.

"What!" exclaimed the young man, folding his arms with an air of
astonishment, "you do not know the news?"

No one answered.

"Have you been told nothing? Has no one been here from Florence? Are you
still in