When God’s curse forsook my country, it fell on me.  I had been young and heroic; I had fought well; what portion of the clock-work of Fate had been allotted me I had utterly performed.  Twelve years ago I became a man and strove for my country’s freedom; now she has attained her heights without me, and I—­what am I?  A shapeless hulk, that stays in the shadow, and that hates the world and the people of the world, and verily the God above the world!

“Fight!” whispered Father Anselmo, the young priest, to me, at my last shrift; and fight I did.  For from Italy’s bosom I had drawn the strength of sword-arm, hip, and thigh; and I vowed to lose that arm and life and all that made life dear toward the trampling of oppressors from the sacred place.

My sun rose in storm, it continued in storm,—­why not so have set?  Why not have died when swords swept their lightnings about me, when the glorious thunders of battle rolled around and sulphurous blasts enveloped, when the air was full of the bray of bugle and beat of drum, of shout and shriek, exultation and agony?  Why not have gone with the crowd of souls reeking with daring and desire?  Why, oh, why thus left alone to wither?  Why still hangs that sun above me, yet wrapt and veiled and utterly obscured in thick, murk mists of sorrow and despair?

Peace!—­let me tell you my story.

Since Father Anselmo—­like all youth, whether under cowl, cap, or crown—­was a Liberal at heart, I had not wanted counsel; but when I had told him all my yearnings and aspirations, had bared to him the throbbings of my very thought, and he had replied in that one blessed word, I hastened away.  There were none to whom I should say farewell; I was alone in the world.  This wild blood of my veins ran in no other veins; I knew thoroughly the wide freedom of solitude; the sins and the virtues of my race, whatever they were, had culminated in me.  As I looked back, that morning, the castle, planted in a dimple of its demesnes, old and gray and watched by purple peaks of Apennine, seemed to hide its command only under the mask of silence.  The wood through which I went, with its alluring depths, the moss verdant in everlasting spring beneath my eager feet, each bough I lifted, the blossoms that blew their gales after, the bearded grasses that shook in the wind, all gave me their secret sigh; all the sweet land around, the distant hill, the distant shore, said, “Redeem me from my chains!” I came across a sylvan statue, some faun nestled in the forest:  the rains had stained, frosts cracked, suns blistered it; but what of those?  A vine covered with thorns and stemmed with cords had wreathed about it and bound it closely in serpent-coils.  I stayed and tore apart the fetters till my hands bled, cut away the twisting branches, and set the god free from his bonds.  Triumph rose to my lips, for I said, “So will I free my country!” Ah, there was my error,—­the shackling vines would grow again, and infold the marble