ssion to give me for Paris?"

"No, none," replied Orlando; and then, with sudden recollection, he
added, "Yes, I have, though! You remember that book written by my old
comrade in arms, Theophile Morin, one of Garibaldi's Thousand, that
manual for the bachelor's degree which he desired to see translated and
adopted here. Well, I am pleased to say that I have a promise that it
shall be used in our schools, but on condition that he makes some
alterations in it. Luigi, give me the book, it is there on that shelf."

Then, when his son had handed him the volume, he showed Pierre some notes
which he had pencilled on the margins, and explained to him the
modifications which were desired in the general scheme of the work. "Will
you be kind enough," he continued, "to take this copy to Morin himself?
His address is written inside the cover. If you can do so you will spare
me the trouble of writing him a very long letter; in ten minutes you can
explain matters to him more clearly and completely than I could do in ten
pages.... And you must embrace Morin for me, and tell him that I still
love him, oh! with all my heart of the bygone days, when I could still
use my legs and we two fought like devils side by side under a hail of
bullets."

A short silence followed, that pause, that embarrassment tinged with
emotion which precedes the moment of farewell. "Come, good-bye," said
Orlando, "embrace me for him and for yourself, embrace me affectionately
like that lad did just now. I am so old and so near my end, my dear
Monsieur Froment, that you will allow me to call you my child and to kiss
you like a grandfather, wishing you all courage and peace, and that faith
in life which alone helps one to live."

Pierre was so touched that tears rose to his eyes, and when with all his
soul he kissed the stricken hero on either cheek, he felt that he
likewise was weeping. With a hand yet as vigorous as a vice, Orlando
detained him for a moment beside his arm-chair, whilst with his other
hand waving in a supreme gesture, he for the last time showed him Rome,
so immense and mournful under the ashen sky. And his voice came low,
quivering and suppliant. "For mercy's sake swear to me that you will love
her all the same, in spite of all, for she is the cradle, the mother!
Love her for all that she no longer is, love her for all that she desires
to be! Do not say that her end has come, love her, love her so that she
may live again, that she may live for