“And the drivers and the gunners are their own brothers, sons, nephews, who will not check their gallop an instant for that fact; for the worst thing about force is that it makes its human instruments mere machines like the guns which they manoeuver,” thought Don Silverio, as he answered aloud:  “No; I fear there will be nothing else for them to do under any tyranny, until all the nations of the earth shall cease to send their children to be made the janissaries of the State.  No alteration of existing dominions will be possible so long as the Armies exist.”

Adone was silent; convinced against his will, and therefore convinced without effect or adhesion.

He dared not tell his friend of the passionate propaganda which he had begun up and down the course of the Edera, striving to make these stocks and stones stir, striving to make the blind see, the deaf hear, the infirm rise and leap.

“Let us go and make music,” said the priest at last.  “That will not harm any one, and will do our own souls good.  It is long since I heard your voice.”

“It will be longer,” thought Adone, as he answered:  “Excuse me, sir; I cannot think of any other thing than this great evil which hangs over us.  There is not one of our country people who does not curse the scheme.  They are frightened and stupid, but they are angry and miserable.  Those who are their spokesmen, or who ought to be, do not say what they wish, do not care what they wish, do not ask what they wish.  They are the sons of the soil, but they count for nothing.  If they met to try and do anything for themselves, guards —­ soldiery —­ would come from a distance, they say, and break up the meetings, and carry those who should speak away to some prison.  The Government approves the theft of the water:  that is to be enough.”

“Yet public meeting has been a right of the people on the Latin soil ever since the Cæsars.”

“What matter right, what matter wrong?  No one heeds either.”

“We must help ourselves.”

He spoke sullenly and under his breath.  He did not dare to say more clearly what was in his thoughts.

“By brute force?” said Don Silverio.  “That were madness.  What would be the number of the able-bodied men of all three communes?  Let us say two thousand; that is over the mark.  What weapons would they have?  Old muskets, old fowling-pieces, and not many of those; their scythes, their axes, their sticks.  A single battalion would cut them down as you mow grass.  You have not seen rioters dispersed by trained troops.  I have.  I have seen even twenty carabineers gallop down a street full of armed citizens, the carabineers shooting right and left without selection; and the street, before they had ridden two hundred yards, was empty except for a few fallen bodies which the horses trampled.  You can never hope to succeed in these days with a mere jacquerie.  You might as well set your wheatsheaves up to oppose a field battery.”