IX.

Our souls have emerged fortified from the sorrow of the lost war.

One day, surely, Italy will re-echo from end to end with the great cry, “Come!”—­and we shall spring to our feet, pale and proud, with the answering shout, “We are ready!”

Then, in the streets of our cities, thronged with people, with soldiers, horses, and wagons, amidst the clashing of arms and the blare of trumpets, we classmates shall meet again.  I shall see them once more, many of them, perhaps, only for that short hour, some only for a moment.  At night, in the torchlit glare of a railway-station, we shall meet again, and greet each other in silence, hand in hand and eye to eye.  No shouting, no songs, no joyous clamor, no vision of triumphal marches, no veiling of death’s image in the light hopefulness of reunion; we shall say but one word to each other—­good-bye—­and that good-bye will be a promise, a vow; that good-bye will mean, “This time, there will be no descending from the mountains; you and I, lad, will be left lying on the summit.”

And often, traversing a long expanse of time, I evoke the vision of distant battle-fields on which the lot of Italy is decided.  My fancy hastens from valley to valley, from hill to hill; and at all the most difficult passages, at all the posts of danger, I see one of my old classmates, a gray-haired colonel or general, at the head of his regiment or of his brigade; and I love to picture him at the moment when, attacked by a heavy force of the enemy, he directs the defence.

The two sides have joined battle, and from a neighboring height, he observes the fighting below.  Poor friend!  At that moment, perhaps, life and honor hang in the balance; thirty years of study, of hopes, of sacrifices, are about to be crowned with glory or scattered like a handful of dust down that green slope at his feet—­it all hangs on a thread.  Pale and motionless he stands there watching, the sabre trembling in his convulsive grasp.  I am near him, my eye is upon his face, I feel and see and tremble with him, I live his life.

Courage, friend!  Your spirit has passed into your men, the fight is theirs, never fear!  That uncertain movement over there towards the right wing is but the momentary confusion caused by some inequality of the ground; they are not falling back, man.  Listen, the shouts are louder, the firing grows heavier, the last battalion has been thrown into action, all your men are fighting.  Ah! how his gaze hurries from one end of the line to the other, how pale he has grown; life seems suspended.  What are those distant voices?  What flame rushes to his face?  What is this smile, this upward glance?  Victory!—­but, by God, man, rein in your horse, look at me—­here I am, your old classmate who holds out his arms to you—­and now off, down to the battlefield among your soldiers—­and God be with you!

He has put his charger to the gallop and disappeared.