delay brings another, and it was midday when the march
began. Garibaldi looked sad, and spoke to no one, but hummed some bars
of Riego's hymn, the Spanish song of freedom, full of a wild, sweet
pathos, to which his tanned-faced legionaries had marched under the
Monte Videan sun. Could he but have had with him those strong warriors
now! He mounted his horse, put it to a gallop, which he rarely did,
and, riding down the ranks of the column, took his place at its head.
When he arrived at the village of Mentana, he heard that the
Pontificals were close by, and he waited to give them battle.

Mentana lies in a depression commanded by the neighbouring mounds,
not a good configuration for defence. This village in the Roman
Campagna sprang into history on a November day one thousand and
sixty-seven years before, as the meeting-place of Charlemagne and Leo
III. Here they shook hands over their bargain: that the Pope should
crown the great Charles Emperor, and that the Emperor should assure to
the Pope his temporal power. And now the ragged band of Italian youths
was come to say that of bargains between Popes and Emperors there had
been enough.

They numbered less than 5000. General De Failly reckoned the Papal
troops engaged at 3000 and the French at 2000, but Italian authorities
compute the former at a higher figure. The most experienced of the
Garibaldian officers thought that the attackers were twice as numerous
as they were. At the first onslaught great confusion prevailed among
the volunteers. Mentana seemed lost, but the sound of the guns they
had captured at Monte Rotondo restored their _moral_, and making a
gallant rush forward they retook the principal positions with the
bayonet. As they saw the Pontificals swerve back they uttered cries of
joy. It was two o'clock. The enemy's fire slackened; something was
going on which the volunteers could not make out. All at once there
was a sharp unfamiliar detonation, resembling the whirring sound of a
machine. The French had come into action.

A hailstorm of bullets mowed down the Garibaldian ranks. Their two
guns were useless, for the ammunition, seventy rounds in all, was
exhausted. They fought till four o'clock--till nearly their last
cartridge was gone; then they slowly retreated. Very few of them
guessed what that peculiar sound meant, or imagined that they had been
engaged with the French, but next morning Europe knew from General De
Failly's report that 'the Chassepots