CHAPTER XX.

COME.

In a small Italian town not far from Rome, a traveller stood listening

to an account of a battle lately fought near by, in which the town had

suffered much, yet been forever honored in the eyes of its inhabitants,

by having been the headquarters of the Hero of Italy. An inquiry of the

traveller's concerning a countryman of whom he was in search, created a

sensation at the little inn, and elicited the story of the battle, one

incident of which was still the all-absorbing topic with the excited

villagers. This was the incident which one of the group related with the

dramatic effects of a language composed almost as much of gesture as of

words, and an audience as picturesque as could well be conceived.

While the fight was raging on the distant plain, a troop of marauding

Croats dashed into the town, whose defenders, although outnumbered,

contested every inch of ground, while slowly driven back toward the

convent, the despoiling of which was the object of the attack. This

convent was both hospital and refuge, for there were gathered women and

children, the sick, the wounded, and the old. To secure the safety of

these rather than of the sacred relics, the Italians were bent on

holding the town till the reinforcement for which they had sent could

come up. It was a question of time, and every moment brought nearer the

destruction of the helpless garrison, trembling behind the convent

walls. A brutal massacre was in store for them if no help came; and

remembering this the red-shirted Garibaldians fought as if they well

deserved their sobriquet of "Scarlet Demons."

Help did come, not from below, but from above. Suddenly a cannon

thundered royally, and down the narrow street rushed a deathful

defiance, carrying disorder and dismay to the assailants, joy and wonder

to the nearly exhausted defenders. Wonder, for well they knew the gun

had stood silent and unmanned since the retreat of the enemy two days

before, and this unexpected answer to their prayers seemed Heaven-sent.

Those below looked up as they fought, those above looked down as they

feared, and midway between all saw that a single man held the gun. A

stalwart figure, bareheaded, stern faced, sinewy armed, fitfully seen

through clouds of smoke and flashes of fire, working with a silent

energy that seemed almost superhuman to the eyes of the superstitious

souls, who believed they saw and heard the convent's patron saint

proclaiming their salvation with a mighty voice.

This belief inspired the Italians, caused a panic among the Croats, and

saved the town. A few rounds turned the scale, the pursued became the

pursuers, and when the reinforcement arrived there was little for it to

do but join in the rejoicing and salute the brave cannoneer, who proved

to be no saint, but a stranger come to watch the battle, and thus

opportunely lend his aid.

Enthusiastic were the demonstrations; vivas, blessings, tears,

handkissing, and invocation of all the saints in the calendar, till it

was discovered that the unknown gentleman had a bullet in his breast

and was in need of instant help. Whereupon the women, clustering about

him like bees, bore him away to the wounded ward, where the inmates rose

up in their beds to welcome him, and the clamorous crowd were with

difficulty persuaded to relinquish him to the priest, the surgeon, and

the rest he needed. Nor was this all; the crowning glory of the event to

the villagers was the coming of the Chief at nightfall, and the scene

about the stranger's bed. Here the narrator glowed with pride, the women

in the group began to sob, and the men took off their caps, with black

eyes glittering through their tears.

"Excellenza, he who had fought for us like a tempest, an angel of doom,

lay there beside my cousin Beppo, who was past help and is now in holy

Paradise--Speranza was washing the smoke and powder from him, the wound

was easy--death of my soul! may he who gave it die unconfessed! See you,

I am there, I watch him, the friend of Excellenza, the great still man

who smiled but said no word to us. Then comes the Chief,--silenzio, till

I finish!--he comes, they have told him, he stays at the bed, he looks

down, the fine eye shines, he takes the hand, he says low--'I thank

you,'--he lays his cloak,--the gray cloak we know and love so well--over

the wounded breast, and so goes on. We cry out, but what does the

friend? Behold! he lifts himself, he lays the cloak upon my Beppo, he

says in that so broken way of his--'Comrade, the honor is for you who

gave your life for him, I give but a single hour.' Beppo saw, heard,

comprehended; thanked him with a glance, and rose up to die crying,

'Viva Italia! Viva Garibaldi!'"

[Illustration]

The cry was caught up by all the listeners in a whirlwind of

enthusiastic loyalty, and the stranger joined in it, thrilled with an

equal love and honor for the Patriot Soldier, whose name upon Italian

lips means liberty.

"Where is he now, this friend of mine, so nearly lost, so happily

found?"

A dozen hands pointed to the convent, a dozen brown faces lighted up,

and a dozen eager voices poured out directions, messages, and

benedictions in a breath. Ordering his carriage to follow presently, the

traveller rapidly climbed the steep road, guided by signs he could not

well mistake. The convent gate stood open, and he paused for no

permission to enter, for looking through it, down the green vista of an

orchard path, he saw his friend and sprang to meet him.

"Adam!"

"Geoffrey!"

"Truant that you are, to desert me for ten days, and only let me find

you when you have no need of me."

"I always need you, but am not always needed. I went away because the

old restlessness came upon me in that dead city Rome. You were happy

there, but I scented war, followed and found it by instinct, and have

had enough of it. Look at my hands."

He laughed as he showed them, still bruised and blackened with the hard

usage they had received; nothing else but a paler shade of color from

loss of blood, showed that he had passed through any suffering or

danger.

"Brave hands, I honor them for all their grime. Tell me about it, Adam;

show me the wound; describe the scene, I want to hear it in calm

English."

But Warwick was slow to do so being the hero of the tale, and very brief

was the reply Moor got.

"I came to watch, but found work ready for me. It is not clear to me

even now what I did, nor how I did it. One of my Berserker rages

possessed me I fancy; my nerves and muscles seemed made of steel and

gutta percha; the smell of powder intoxicated, and the sense of power

was grand. The fire, the smoke, the din were all delicious, and I felt

like a giant, as I wielded that great weapon, dealing many deaths with a

single pair of hands."

"The savage in you got the mastery just then; I've seen it, and have

often wondered how you managed to control it so well. Now it has had a

holiday and made a hero of you."

"The savage is better out than in, and any man may be a hero if he will.

What have you been doing since I left you poring over pictures in a

mouldy palace?"

"You think to slip away from the subject, do you? and after facing death

at a cannon's breach expect me to be satisfied with an ordinary

greeting? I won't have it; I insist upon asking as many questions as I

like, hearing about the wound and seeing if it is doing well. Where is

it?"

Warwick showed it, a little purple spot above his heart. Moor's face

grew anxious as he looked, but cleared again as he examined it, for the

ball had gone upward and the wholesome flesh was already healing fast.

"Too near, Adam, but thank God it was no nearer. A little lower and I

might have looked for you in vain."

"This heart of mine is a tough organ, bullet-proof, I dare say, though I

wear no breastplate."

"But this!" Involuntarily Moor's eye asked the question his lips did not

utter as he touched a worn and faded case hanging on the broad breast

before him. Silently Warwick opened it, showing not Sylvia's face but

that of an old woman, rudely drawn in sepia; the brown tints bringing

out the marked features as no softer hue could have done, and giving to

each line a depth of expression that made the serious countenance

singularly lifelike and attractive.

Now Moor saw where Warwick got both keen eyes and tender mouth, as well

as all the gentler traits that softened his strong character; and felt

that no other woman ever had or ever would hold so dear a place as the

old mother whose likeness he had drawn and hung where other men wear

images of mistress or of wife. With a glance as full of penitence as the

other had been of disquiet, Moor laid back the little case, drew bandage

and blouse over both wound and picture, and linked his arm in Warwick's

as he asked--

"Who shot you?"

"How can I tell? I knew nothing of it till that flock of women fell to

kissing these dirty hands of mine; then I was conscious of a stinging

pain in my shoulder, and a warm stream trickling down my side. I looked

to see what was amiss, whereat the good souls set up a shriek, took

possession of me, and for half an hour wept and wailed over me in a

frenzy of emotion and good-will that kept me merry in spite of the

surgeon's probes and the priest's prayers. The appellations showered

upon me would have startled even your ears, accustomed to soft words.

Were you ever called 'core of my heart,' 'sun of my soul,' or 'cup of

gold'?"

"Cannonading suits your spirits excellently; I remember your telling me

that you had tried and liked it. But there is to be no more of it, I

have other plans for you. Before I mention them tell me of the interview

with Garibaldi."

"That now is a thing to ask one about; a thing to talk of and take

pride in all one's days. I was half asleep and thought myself dreaming

till he spoke. A right noble face, Geoffrey--full of thought and power;

the look of one born to command others because master of himself. A

square strong frame; no decorations, no parade; dressed like his men,

yet as much the chief as if he wore a dozen orders on his scarlet

shirt."

"Where is the cloak? I want to see and touch it; surely you kept it as a

relic?"

"Not I. Having seen the man, what do I care for the garment that covered

him. I keep the hand shake, the 'Grazia, grazia,' for my share. Poor

Beppo lies buried in the hero's cloak."

"I grudge it to him, every inch of it, for not having seen the man _I_

do desire the garment. Who but you would have done it?"

Warwick smiled, knowing that his friend was well pleased with him for

all his murmuring. They walked in silence till Moor abruptly asked--

"When can you travel, Adam?"

"I was coming back to you to-morrow."

"Are you sure it is safe?"

"Quite sure; ten days is enough to waste upon a scratch like this."

"Come now, I cannot wait till to-morrow."

"Very good. Can you stop till I get my hat?"

"You don't ask me why I am in such haste."

Moor's tone caused Warwick to pause and look at him. Joy, impatience,

anxiety, contended with each other in his countenance; and as if unable

to tell the cause himself, he put a little paper into the other's hand.

Only three words were contained in it, but they caused Warwick's face

to kindle with all the joy betrayed in that of his friend, none of the

impatience nor anxiety.

"What can I say to show you my content? The months have seemed very long

to you, but now comes the reward. The blessed little letter! so like

herself; the slender slip, the delicate handwriting, the three happy

words,--'Geoffrey, come home.'"

Moor did not speak, but still looked up anxiously, inquiringly; and

Warwick answered with a glance he could not doubt.

"Have no fears for me. I share the joy as heartily as I shared the

sorrow; neither can separate us any more."

"Thank heaven for that! But, Adam, may I accept this good gift and be

sure I am not robbing you again? You never speak of the past, how is it

with you now?"

"Quite well and happy; the pain is gone, the peace remains. I would not

have it otherwise. Six months have cured the selfishness of love, and

left the satisfaction which nothing can change or take away."

"But Sylvia, what of her, Adam?"

"Henceforth, Sylvia and Ottila are only fair illustrations of the two

extremes of love. I am glad to have known both; each has helped me, and

each will be remembered while I live. But having gained the experience I

can relinquish the unconscious bestowers of it, if it is not best to

keep them. Believe that I do this without regret, and freely enjoy the

happiness that comes to you."

"I will, but not as I once should; for though I feel that you need

neither sympathy nor pity, still, I seem to take so much and leave you

nothing."

"You leave me myself, better and humbler than before. In the fierce half

hour I lived not long ago, I think a great and needful change was

wrought in me. All lives are full of such, coming when least looked for,

working out the end through unexpected means. The restless, domineering

devil that haunted me was cast out then; and during the quiet time that

followed a new spirit entered in and took possession."

"What is it, Adam?"

"I cannot tell, yet I welcome it. This peaceful mood may not last

perhaps, but it brings me that rare moment--pity that it is so rare, and

but a moment--when we seem to see temptation at our feet; when we are

conscious of a willingness to leave all in God's hand, ready for

whatever He may send; feeling that whether it be suffering or joy we

shall see the Giver in the gift, and when He calls can answer cheerfully

'Lord here am I.'"

It _was_ a rare moment, and in it Moor for the first time clearly saw

the desire and design of his friend's life; saw it because it was

accomplished, and for the instant Adam Warwick was what he aspired to

be. A goodly man, whose stalwart body seemed a fit home for a strong

soul, wise with the wisdom of a deep experience, genial with the virtues

of an upright life, devout with that humble yet valiant piety which

comes through hard-won victories over "the world, the flesh, and the

devil." Despite the hope that warmed his heart, Moor felt poor beside

him, as a new reverence warmed the old affection. His face showed it

though he did not speak, and Warwick laid an arm about his shoulders as

he had often done of late when they were alone, drawing him gently on

again, as he said, with a touch of playfulness to set both at ease--

"Tell me your plans, 'my cup of gold,' and let me lend a hand toward

filling you brimful of happiness. You are going home?"

"At once; you also."

"Is it best?"

"Yes; you came for me, I stay for you, and Sylvia waits for both."

"She says nothing of me in this short, sweet note of hers;" and Warwick

smoothed it carefully in his large hand, eyeing it as if he wished there

were some little word for him.

"True, but in the few letters she has written there always comes a

message to you, though you never write a line; nor would you go to her

now had she sent for you alone; she knew that, and sends for me, sure

that you will follow."

"Being a woman she cannot quite forgive me for loving her too well to

make her miserable. Dear soul, she will never know how much it cost me,

but I knew that my only safety lay in flight. Tell her so a long while

hence."

"You shall do it yourself, for you are coming home with me."

"What to do there?"

"All you ever did; walk up and down the face of the earth, waxing in

power and virtue, and coming often to us when we get fairly back into

our former ways, for you are still the house friend."

"I was wondering, as I walked here, what my next summons would be, when

lo, you came. Go on, I'll follow you; one could hardly have a better

guide."

"You are sure you are able, Adam?"

"Shall I uproot a tree or fling you over the wall to convince you, you

motherly body? I am nearly whole again, and a breath of sea air will

complete the cure. Let me cover my head, say farewell to the good

Sisters, and I shall be glad to slip away without further

demonstrations from the volcanoes below there."

Laying one hand on the low wall, Warwick vaulted over with a backward

glance at Moor, who followed to the gateway, there to wait till the

adieux were over. Very brief they were, and presently Warwick

reappeared, evidently touched yet ill-pleased at something, for he both

smiled and frowned as he paused on the threshold as if loth to go. A

little white goat came skipping from the orchard, and seeing the

stranger took refuge at Warwick's knee. The act of the creature seemed

to suggest a thought to the man. Pulling off the gay handkerchief some

grateful woman had knotted round his neck, he fastened it about the

goat's, having secured something in one end, then rose as if content.

"What are you doing?" called Moor, wondering at this arrangement.

"Widening the narrow entrance into heaven set apart for rich men unless

they leave their substance behind, as I am trying to do. The kind

creatures cannot refuse it now; so trot away to your mistress, little

Nanna, and tell no tales as you go."

As the goat went tapping up the steps a stir within announced the

dreaded demonstration. Warwick did not seem to hear it; he stood looking

far across the trampled plain and ruined town toward the mountains

shining white against the deep Italian sky. A rapt, far-reaching look,

as if he saw beyond the purple wall, and seeing forgot the present in

some vision of the future.

"Come, Adam! I am waiting."

His eye came back, the lost look passed, and cheerily he answered--

"I am ready."

A fortnight later in that dark hour before the dawn, with a murky sky

above them, a hungry sea below them, the two stood together the last to

leave a sinking ship.

"Room for one more, choose quick!" shouted a hoarse voice from the boat

tossing underneath, freighted to the water's edge with trembling lives.

"Go, Geoffrey, Sylvia is waiting."

"Not without you, Adam."

"But you are exhausted; I can bear a rough hour better than yourself,

and morning will bring help."

"It may not. Go, I am the lesser loss."

"What folly! I will force you to it; steady there, he is coming."

"Push off, I am _not_ coming."

In times like that, few pause for pity or persuasion; the instinct of

self-preservation rules supreme, and each is for himself, except those

in whom love of another is stronger than love of life. Even while the

friends generously contended the boat was swept away, and they were left

alone in the deserted ship, swiftly making its last voyage downward.

Spent with a day of intense excitement, and sick with hope deferred,

Moor leaned on Warwick, feeling that it was adding bitterness to death

to die in sight of shore. But Warwick never knew despair; passive

submission was not in his power while anything remained to do or dare,

and even then he did not cease to hope. It was certain death to linger

there; other boats less heavily laden had put off before, and might

drift across their track; wreckers waiting on the shore might hear and

help; at least it were better to die bravely and not "strike sail to a

fear." About his waist still hung a fragment of the rope which had

lowered more than one baby to its mother's arms; before them the

shattered taffrail rose and fell as the waves beat over it. Wrenching a

spar away he lashed Moor to it, explaining his purpose as he worked.

There was only rope enough for one, and in the darkness Moor believed

that Warwick had taken equal precautions for himself.

"Now Geoffrey your hand, and when the next wave ebbs let us follow it.

If we are parted and you see her first tell her I remembered, and give

her this."

In the black night with only Heaven to see them the men kissed tenderly

as women, then hand in hand sprang out into the sea. Drenched and

blinded they struggled up after the first plunge, and struck out for the

shore, guided by the thunder of the surf they had listened to for twelve

long hours, as it broke against the beach, and brought no help on its

receding billows. Soon Warwick was the only one who struggled, for

Moor's strength was gone, and he clung half conscious to the spar,

tossing from wave to wave, a piteous plaything for the sea.

"I see a light!--they must take you in--hold fast, I'll save you for the

little wife at home."

Moor heard but two words, "wife" and "home;" strained his dim eyes to

see the light, spent his last grain of strength to reach it, and in the

act lost consciousness, whispering--"She will thank you," as his head

fell against Warwick's breast and lay there, heavy and still. Lifting

himself above the spar, Adam lent the full power of his voice to the

shout he sent ringing through the storm. He did not call in vain, a

friendly wind took the cry to human ears, a relenting wave swept them

within the reach of human aid, and the boat's crew, pausing

involuntarily, saw a hand clutch the suspended oar, a face flash up from

the black water, and heard a breathless voice issue the command--

"Take in this man! he saved you for your wives, save him for his."

One resolute will can sway a panic-stricken multitude; it did so then.

The boat was rocking in the long swell of the sea; a moment and the

coming wave would sweep them far apart. A woman sobbed, and as if moved

by one impulse four sturdy arms clutched and drew Moor in. While

loosening his friend Warwick had forgotten himself, and the spar was

gone. He knew it, but the rest believed that they left the strong man a

chance of life equal to their own in that overladen boat. Yet in the

memories of all who caught that last glimpse of him there long remained

the recollection of a dauntless face floating out into the night, a

steady voice calling through the gale, "A good voyage, comrades!" as he

turned away to enter port before them.

Wide was the sea and pitiless the storm, but neither could dismay the

unconquerable spirit of the man who fought against the elements as

bravely as if they were adversaries of mortal mould, and might be

vanquished in the end. But it was not to be; soon he felt it, accepted

it, turned his face upward toward the sky, where one star shone, and

when Death whispered "Come!" answered as cheerily as to that other

friend, "I am ready." Then with a parting thought for the man he had

saved, the woman he had loved, the promise he had kept, a great and

tender heart went down into the sea.

* * * * *

Sometimes the Sculptor, whose workshop is the world, fuses many metals

and casts a noble statue; leaves it for humanity to criticise, and when

time has mellowed both beauties and blemishes, removes it to that inner

studio, there to be carved in enduring marble.

Adam Warwick was such an one; with much alloy and many flaws; but

beneath all defects the Master's eye saw the grand lines that were to

serve as models for the perfect man, and when the design had passed

through all necessary processes,--the mould of clay, the furnace fire,

the test of time,--He washed the dust away, and pronounced it ready for

the marble.