For many years he had lived withdrawn from the world in which he had once played so active and even turbulent a part.  The study of Tuscan art was his only pursuit, and it was to help him in the classification of his notes and documents that I was first called to his villa.  Colonel Alingdon had then the look of a very old man, though his age can hardly have exceeded seventy.  He was small and bent, with a finely wrinkled face which still wore the tan of youthful exposure.  But for this dusky redness it would have been hard to reconstruct from the shrunken recluse, with his low fastidious voice and carefully tended hands, an image of that young knight of adventure whose sword had been at the service of every uprising which stirred the uneasy soil of Italy in the first half of the nineteenth century.

Though I was more of a proficient in Colonel Alingdon’s later than his earlier pursuits, the thought of his soldiering days was always coming between me and the pacific work of his old age.  As we sat collating papers and comparing photographs, I had the feeling that this dry and quiet old man had seen even stranger things than people said:  that he knew more of the inner history of Europe than half the diplomatists of his day.

I was not alone in this conviction; and the friend who had engaged me for Colonel Alingdon had appended to his instructions the injunction to “get him to talk.”  But this was what no one could do.  Colonel Alingdon was ready to discuss by the hour the date of a Giottesque triptych, or the attribution of a disputed master; but on the history of his early life he was habitually silent.

It was perhaps because I recognized this silence and respected it that it afterward came to be broken for me.  Or it was perhaps merely because, as the failure of Colonel Alingdon’s sight cut him off from his work, he felt the natural inclination of age to revert from the empty present to the crowded past.  For one cause or another he did talk to me in the last year of his life; and I felt myself mingled, to an extent inconceivable to the mere reader of history, with the passionate scenes of the Italian struggle for liberty.  Colonel Alingdon had been mixed with it in all its phases:  he had known the last Carbonari and the Young Italy of Mazzini; he had been in Perugia when the mercenaries of a liberal Pope slaughtered women and children in the streets; he had been in Sicily with the Thousand, and in Milan during the Cinque Giornate.

“They say the Italians didn’t know how to fight,” he said one day, musingly—­“that the French had to come down and do their work for them.  People forget how long it was since they had had any fighting to do.  But they hadn’t forgotten how to suffer and hold their tongues; how to die and take their secrets with them.  The Italian war of independence was really carried on underground:  it was one of those awful silent struggles which are so much more terrible than the roar of a battle.  It’s a deuced sight easier to charge with your regiment than to lie rotting in an Austrian prison and know that if you give up the name of a friend or two you can go back scot-free to your wife and children.  And thousands and thousands of Italians had the choice given them—­and hardly one went back.”