Arms were in the city.  With hatred to prompt the blow, with arms to strike, so much dishonour to avenge, we need not wonder that these youths beheld the bit of liberty in prospect magnified by their mighty obfuscating ardour, like a lantern in a fog.  Reason did not act.  They were in such a state when just to say ‘Italia!  Italia!’ gave them nerve to match an athlete.  So, the parading of Austria, the towering athlete, failed of its complete lesson of intimidation, and only ruffled the surface of insurgent hearts.  It seemed, and it was, an insult to the trodden people, who read it as a lesson for cravens:  their instinct commonly hits the bell.  They felt that a secure supremacy would not have paraded itself:  so they divined indistinctly that there was weakness somewhere in the councils of the enemy.  When the show had vanished, their spirits hung pausing, like the hollow air emptied of big sound, and reacted.  Austria had gained little more by her display than the conscientious satisfaction of the pedagogue who lifts the rod to advise intending juvenile culprits how richly it can be merited and how poor will be their future grounds of complaint.

But before Austria herself had been taught a lesson she conceived that she had but one man and his feeble instruments, and occasional frenzies, opposed to her, him whom we saw on the Motterone, which was ceasing to be true; though it was true that the whole popular movement flowed from that one man.  She observed travelling sparks in the embers of Italy, and crushed them under her heel, without reflecting that a vital heat must be gathering where the spots of fire run with such a swiftness.  It was her belief that if she could seize that one man, whom many of the younger nobles and all the people acknowledged as their Chief—­for he stood then without a rival in his task—­she would have the neck of conspiracy in her angry grasp.  Had she caught him, the conspiracy for Italian freedom would not have crowed for many long seasons; the torch would have been ready, but not the magazine.  He prepared it; it was he who preached to the Italians that opportunity is a mocking devil when we look for it to be revealed; or, in other words, wait for chance; as it is God’s angel when it is created within us, the ripe fruit of virtue and devotion.  He cried out to Italians to wait for no inspiration but their own; that they should never subdue their minds to follow any alien example; nor let a foreign city of fire be their beacon.  Watching over his Italy; her wrist in his meditative clasp year by year; he stood like a mystic leech by the couch of a fair and hopeless frame, pledged to revive it by the inspired assurance, shared by none, that life had not forsaken it.  A body given over to death and vultures-he stood by it in the desert.  Is it a marvel to you that when the carrion-wings swooped low, and the claws fixed, and the beak plucked and savoured its morsel, he raised his arm, and urged the half-resuscitated frame to some vindicating show of existence?  Arise! he said, even in what appeared most fatal hours of darkness.  The slack limbs moved; the body rose and fell.  The cost of the effort was the breaking out of innumerable wounds, old and new; the gain was the display of the miracle that Italy lived.  She tasted her own blood, and herself knew that she lived.