It was the autumn antecedent to that memorable Spring of the great Italian uprising, when, though for a tragic issue, the people of Italy first felt and acted as a nation, and Charles Albert, called the Sword of Italy, aspired, without comprehension of the passion of patriotism by which it was animated, to lead it quietly into the fold of his Piedmontese kingship.

There is not an easier or a pleasanter height to climb than the Motterone, if, in Italian heat, you can endure the disappointment of seeing the summit, as you ascend, constantly flit away to a farther station.  It seems to throw its head back, like a laughing senior when children struggle up for kissings.  The party of five had come through the vines from Stresa and from Baveno.  The mountain was strange to them, and they had already reckoned twice on having the topmost eminence in view, when reaching it they found themselves on a fresh plateau, traversed by wild water-courses, and browsed by Alpine herds; and again the green dome was distant.  They came to the highest chalet, where a hearty wiry young fellow, busily employed in making cheese, invited them to the enjoyment of shade and fresh milk.  “For the sake of these adolescents, who lose much and require much, let it be so,” said Agostino gravely, and not without some belief that he consented to rest on behalf of his companions.  They allowed the young mountaineer to close the door, and sat about his fire like sagacious men.  When cooled and refreshed, Agostino gave the signal for departure, and returned thanks for hospitality.  Money was not offered and not expected.  As they were going forth the mountaineer accompanied them to the step on the threshold, and with a mysterious eagerness in his eyes, addressed Agostino.

“Signore, is it true?—­the king marches?”

“Who is the king, my friend?” returned Agostino.  “If he marches out of his dominions, the king confers a blessing on his people perchance.”

“Our king, signore!” The mountaineer waved his finger as from Novara toward Milan.

Agostino seemed to awaken swiftly from his disguise of an absolute gravity.  A red light stood in his eyeballs, as if upon a fiery answer.  The intemperate fit subsided.  Smoothing dawn his mottled grey beard with quieting hands, he took refuge in his habitual sententious irony.

“My friend, I am not a hare in front of the king, nor am I a ram in the rear of him:  I fly him not, neither do I propel him.  So, therefore, I cannot predict the movements of the king.  Will the wind blow from the north to-morrow, think you?”

The mountaineer sent a quick gaze up the air, as to descry signs.

“Who knows?” Agostino continued, though not playing into the smiles of his companions; “the wind will blow straight thither where there is a vacuum; and all that we can state of the king is, that there is a positive vacuum here.  It would be difficult to predict the king’s movements save by such weighty indications.”