IV

The office of the _Sunrise_ at nine o'clock that night tingled with

excitement. A supplement had already gone to press, and the machines in

the basement were working rapidly. In the business office on the first

floor people were constantly coming and going, and the footsteps on the

stairs of the composing-room sounded through the walls like the

irregular beat of a hammer.

The door of the editor's room was frequently swinging open, as reporters

with reports, messengers with telegrams, and boys with proofs came in

and laid them on the desk at which the sub-editor sat at work.

David Rossi stood by his desk at the farther end of the room. This was

the last night of his editorship of the _Sunrise_, and by various silent

artifices the staff were showing their sympathy with the man who had

made the paper and was forced to leave it.

The excitement within the office of the _Sunrise_ corresponded to the

commotion outside. The city was in a ferment, and from time to time

unknown persons, the spontaneous reporters of tumultuous days, were

brought in from the outer office to give the editor the latest news of

the night. Another trainful of people had arrived from Milan! Still

another from Bologna and Carrara! The storm was growing! Soon would be

heard the crash of war! Their faces were eager and their tone was one of

triumph. They pitched their voices high, so as to be heard above the

reverberation of the machines, whose deep thud in the rooms below made

the walls vibrate like the side of a ship at sea.

David Rossi did not catch the contagion of their joy. At every fresh

announcement his face clouded. The unofficial head of the surging and

straining democracy, which was filling itself hourly with hopes and

dreams, was unhappy and perplexed. He was trying to write his last

message to his people, and he could not get it clear because his own

mind was confused.

"_Romans_," he wrote first, "_your rulers are preparing to resist your

right of meeting, and you will have nothing to oppose to the muskets and

bayonets of their soldiers but the bare breasts of a brave but peaceful

people. No matter. Fifty, a hundred, five hundred of you killed at the

first volley, and the day is won! The reactionary Government of

Italy--all the reactionary Governments of Europe--will be borne down lay

the righteous indignation of the world._"

It would not do! He had no right to lead the people to certain

slaughter, and he tore up his manifesto and began again.

"_Romans_," he wrote the second time, "_when reforms cannot be effected

without the spilling of blood, the time for them has not yet come, and

it is the duty of a brave and peaceful people to wait for the silent

operation of natural law and the mighty help of moral forces. Therefore

at the eleventh hour I call upon you, in the names of your wives and

children...._"

It was impossible! The people would think he was afraid, and the

opportune moment would be lost.

One man in the office of the _Sunrise_ was entirely outside the circle

of its electric currents. This was the former day-editor, who had been

appointed by the proprietors to take Rossi's place, and was now walking

about with a silk hat on his head, taking note of everything and

exercising a premature and gratuitous supervision.

David Rossi was tearing up the second of his manifestoes when this

person came to say that a lady in the outer office was asking to see

him.

"Show her into the private waiting-room," said Rossi.

"But may I suggest," said the man, "that considering who the lady is, it

would perhaps be better to see her elsewhere?"

"Show her into the private room, sir," said Rossi, and the man shrugged

his shoulders and disappeared.

As David Rossi opened the door of a small room at his right hand,

something rustled lightly in the corridor outside, and a moment

afterwards Roma glided into his arms. She was pale and nervous, and

after a moment she began to cry.

"Dear one," said Rossi, pressing her head against his breast, "what has

happened? Tell me! Something has frightened you. You look anxious."

"No wonder," she said, and then she told him of her summons to the

Palazzo Braschi, and of the business she saw done there.

There was to be a riot at the meeting at the Coliseum, because, if need

be, the Government itself would provoke violence. The object was to

kill _him_, not the people, and if he stayed in Rome until to-morrow

night there would be no possibility of escape.

"You must fly," she said. "You are the victim marked out by all these

preparations--you, you, nobody but you."

"It is the best news I've heard for days," he said. "If I am the only

one who runs a risk...."

"Risk! My dearest, don't you understand? Your life is aimed at, and you

must fly before it is quite impossible."

"It is already impossible," he answered.

He drew off one of her white gloves and kissed her finger-tips. "My dear

one," he said, "if there were nothing else to think of, do you suppose I

could go away and leave you behind me? That is just what somebody

expected me to do when he permitted you to witness his preparations. But

he was mistaken. I cannot and I will not leave you."

Her pale face was suddenly overspread by a burning blush, and she threw

both arms about his neck.

"Very well," she said, "I will go with you."

"Darling!" he cried, and he clasped her to his breast again. "But no!

That is impossible also. Our marriage cannot take place for ten days."

"No matter! I'll go without it."

"My dear child, you don't know what you are saying. You are too good,

too pure...."

"Hush! Our marriage is nothing to anybody but ourselves, and if we

choose to go without it...."

"My dear girl!"

"I can't hear you," she said. Loosening her hands from his neck, she had

covered her ears.

"Dearest, I know what you are thinking of, but it must not be."

"I can't hear a word you're saying," she said, beating her hands over

her ears. "I'm ready to go now, this very minute--and if you don't take

me, it is because you love other things better than you love me."

"My darling, don't tempt me. If you only knew what it costs me ... but I

would rather die...."

"I don't want you to die. That's just it! I want you to live, and I am

willing to risk everything--everything...."

Her warm and lovely form was quivering in his arms, and his heart was

labouring wildly.

"Dearest," he whispered over her head, "you are so good, so pure, so

noble, that you don't know how evil tongues can wag at a woman because

she is brave and true. But I must remember my mother--and if your poor

father is to rest in his grave...."

His voice broke and he stopped.

"See how much I love you," he whispered again, "when I would rather lose

you than see you lower yourself in your own esteem.... And then think of

my people! my poor people who trust me and look up to me so much more

than I deserve. I called them and they have come. They are here now,

tens of thousands of them. And they will be here to-morrow wherever I

may be. Shall I desert them in their hour of need, thinking of my own

safety, my own happiness? No! You cannot wish it! You do not wish it! I

know you too well!"

She lifted her head from his breast. "You are right," she said. "You

must stay."

"My sweet girl!"

"Can you ever forgive me for being frightened at the first note of

danger and telling you to fly?"

"I will always love you for it."

"And you will never think the worse of me for offering to go with you?"

"I will love you for that too."

"I must be brave," she said, drawing herself up proudly, though her lips

were trembling, her voice was breaking, and her eyes were wet. "Whether

you are right or wrong in what you are doing it is not for me to decide,

but if your heart tells you to do it you _must_ do it, and I must be

your soldier, ready and waiting for my captain's call."

"My brave girl!"

"It is not for nothing that I am my father's daughter. _He_ risked

everything and so will I, and if they come to me to-morrow night and say

that ... that you ... that you are...."

The proud face had fallen on his breast again. But after a moment it was

raised afresh, and then it was shining all over.

"That's right! How beautiful your face is when it smiles, Roma! Roma, do

you know what I'm going to do when this is all over? I'm going to spend

my life in making you smile all the time."

She gave him a sudden kiss, and then broke out of his arms.

"I must be going. I've stayed too long. I may not see you before the

meeting, but I won't say 'good-bye.' I've thought of something, and now

I know what I'm going to do."

"What is it?"

"Don't ask me."

She opened the door.

"Come to me to-morrow night--I shall expect you," she whispered, and

waving her glove to him over her head she disappeared from the room.

He stood a moment where she had left him, trying to think what she

intended to do, and then he returned to his desk in the outer office.

His successor was there, looking sour and stubborn.

"Mr. Rossi," he said, "this afternoon I was told at the Press Club that

the authorities were watching for a plausible excuse for suppressing the

paper; and considering the relations of this lady to the Minister of the

Interior, and the danger of spies...."

"Listen to this carefully, sir," interrupted Rossi. "When you come into

possession of the chair I occupy, you may do as you think well, but

to-night it is mine, and I shall conduct the paper as I please."

"Still, you will allow me to say...."

"Not one word."

"Permit me to protest...."

"Leave the room immediately."

When the man was gone, David Rossi wrote a third and last version of his

manifesto:

"_Romans.--Have no fear. Do not allow yourselves to be terrified by the

military preparations of your Government. Believe a man who has never

deceived you--the soldiers will not fire upon the people! Violate no

law. Assail no enemy. Respect property. Above all, respect life. Do not

allow yourself to be pushed into the doctrine of physical force. If any

man tries to provoke violence, think him an agent of your enemies and

pay no heed. Be brave, be strong, be patient, and to-morrow night you

will send up such a cry as will ring throughout the world. Romans,

remember your fathers and be great._"

Rossi was handing his manuscript to the sub-editor, that it might be

sent upstairs, when all at once the air seemed to become empty and the

world to stand still. The machine in the basement had ceased to work.

There was a momentary pause, such as comes on a steamship at sea when

the engines are suddenly stopped, and then a sound of frightened voices

and the noise of hurrying feet. Somebody ran along the corridor outside

and rapped sharply at the door.

At the next moment the door opened and four men entered the room. One of

them was an inspector, another was a delegate, and the others were

policemen in plain clothes.

"The journal is sequestered," said the inspector to David Rossi. And

turning to one of his men, he said, "Go up to the composing-room and

superintend the distribution of the type."

"Allow no one to leave the building," said the delegate to the other

policeman.

"Gentlemen," said the inspector, "we are charged to make a perquisition,

and must ask you for the keys of your desks."

"What is this?" said the delegate, taking the manifesto out of Rossi's

fingers, and proceeding to read it.

At that moment the editor-elect came rushing into the room with a face

like the rising sun.

"I demand to see a list of the things sequestered," he cried.

"You shall do so at the police-office," said the inspector.

"Does that mean that we are all arrested?"

"Not all. The Honourable Rossi, being a Deputy, is at liberty to leave."

"Thought as much," said the new editor, with a contemptuous snort. And

turning to Rossi, and showing his teeth in a bitter smile, he said:

"What did I say would happen? Has it followed quickly enough to satisfy

you?"

The inspector and the delegate opened the editors' desks and were

rummaging among their papers when David Rossi put on his hat and went

home.

At the door of the lodge the old Garibaldian was waiting in obvious

excitement.

"Old John has been here, sir," he said. "Something to tell you. Wouldn't

tell me. But Bruno got it out of him at last. Must be something serious,

for the big booby has been drinking ever since. Hear him in the café,

sir. I'll send him up."

Half-an-hour afterwards Bruno staggered into Rossi's room. He had a

tearful look in his drink-deadened eyes, and was clearly struggling

with a desire to put his arms about Rossi's neck and weep over him.

"D'ye know wha'?" he mumbled in a maudlin voice. "Ole Vampire is a

villain! Ole John--'member ole John?--well, ole John heard his grandson,

the d'ective, say that if you go to the Coliseum to-morrow night...."

"I know all about it, Bruno. You may go to bed."

"Stop a minute, sir," said Bruno, with a melancholy smile. "You don't

unnerstand. They're going t' shoot you. See? Ole John--'member ole John?

Well, ole John...."

"I know, Bruno. But I'm going nevertheless."

Bruno fought with the vapour in his brain, and said: "You don' mean t'

say you inten' t' let yourself be a target...."

"That's what I do mean, Bruno."

Bruno burst into a loud laugh. "Well, I'll be ... wha' the devil.... But

you sha'n't go. I'll ... I'll see you damned first!"

"You're drunk, Bruno. Go and put yourself to bed."

The drink-deadened eyes flashed, and to grief succeeded rage. "Pu' mysel

t' bed! D'ye know wha' I'd like t' do t' you for t' nex' twenty-four

hours? I'd jus' like--yes, by Bacchus--I'd jus' like to punch you in t'

belly and put _you_ t' bed."

And straightening himself up with drunken dignity, Bruno stalked out of

the room.

* * * * *

The Baron Bonelli in the Piazza Leone was rising from his late and

solitary dinner when Felice entered the shaded dining-room and handed

him a letter from Roma. It ran:

"This is to let you know that I intend to be present at the

meeting in the Coliseum to-morrow night. Therefore, if any shots

are to be fired by the soldiers at the crowd or their leader, you

will know beforehand that they must also be fired at me."

As the Baron held the letter under the red shade of the lamp, the usual

immobility of his icy face gave way to a rapturous expression.

"The woman is magnificent! And worth fighting for to the bitter end."

Then, turning to Felice, he told the man to ring up the Commendatore

Angelelli and tell him to send for Minghelli without delay.

V

Next day began with heavy clouds lying low over the city, a cold wind

coming down from the mountains, and the rumbling of distant thunder.

Nevertheless the people who had come to Rome for the demonstration at

the Coliseum seemed to be in the streets the whole day long. From early

morning they gathered in the Piazza Navona, inquired for David Rossi,

stood by the fountains, and looked up at his windows.

As the day wore on the crowds increased.

All the public squares seemed to be full of motley, ill-clad,

ill-nourished, but formidable multitudes. Towards evening the tradesmen

began to shut up their shops, and a regiment of cavalry paraded the

principal streets with a band that played the royal march.

Meantime, the leader, to whom thousands were looking up, was miserable

and alone. He had cried "Peace," but the perils of protest were so many

and so near. A blow, a push, a quarrel at a street corner, and God knows

what might happen!

Elena came with his coffee. The timid creature kept looking at him out

of her liquid eyes as if struggling with a desire to speak, but when she

did so it was only on indifferent subjects.

Bruno had got up with a headache and gone off to work. Little Joseph was

very trying this morning, and she had threatened to whip him.

Her father had been upstairs to say that countless people were asking

for the Deputy, and he wished to know if anybody was to come up.

"Tell him I wish to be quite alone to-day," said Rossi, and then the

soft voice ceased, and the timid creature went out with a guilty look.

Like a man who is going on a long and perilous journey, David Rossi

spent the morning in arranging his affairs. He looked over his letters

and destroyed most of them. The letters from Roma were hard to burn, but

he read each of them again, as if trying to stamp their words and

characters on his brain, and with a deep sigh he committed them to the

flames.

It was twelve o'clock by this time, and Francesca, in her red cotton

handkerchief, brought up his lunch. The good old thing looked at him

with a comical expression of pity on her wrinkled face, and he knew that

Bruno had told his story.

"Come now, my son! Put away your papers and get something on your

stomach. People eat even if they're going to the gallows, you know."

After lunch Rossi called upstairs for Joseph, and the shock-headed

little cub was brought down, with his wet eyes twinkling and his petted

lip beginning to smile.

"Joseph has been naughty, Uncle David," said Elena. "He is crying for

the clothes Donna Roma gave him, and he says he must go out because it

is his birthday."

"Does a man cry when he is seven?" said Uncle David.

Thereupon Joseph, keeping his eyes upon his mother, whispered something

in Uncle David's ear, and straightway the gorgeous garments were

produced.

"Joseph will promise not to go out to-day; won't you, Joseph?"

And Joseph rolled his fists into his eyes and was understood to say

"Yes."

At four o'clock Bruno came home, looking grim and resolute.

"I was pretty drunk last night, sir," he said, "but if there's shooting

to be done this evening I'm going to be there."

The time came for the two men to go, and everybody saw them to the door.

"Adieu!" said Rossi. "Thank you for all you've done for me, and may God

bless you! Take care of my little Roman boy. Kiss me, Joseph! Again! For

the last time! Adieu!"

"Ah, God is a good old saint. He'll take care of you, my son," said the

old woman.

"Adieu, Uncle David! Adieu, papa!" cried Joseph over the banisters, and

the brave little voice, with its manly falsetto, was the last the men

heard as they descended the stairs.

The Piazza del Popolo was densely crowded, and seemed to be twice as

large as usual. Bruno elbowed a way through for himself and Rossi until

they came to the obelisk in the centre of the great circle. On the steps

of the obelisk a company of artillery was stationed with a piece of

cannon which commanded the three principal thoroughfares of the city,

the Corso, the Ripetta, and the Babunio, which branch off from that

centre like the ribs from the handle of a fan. Without taking notice of

the soldiers, the people ranged themselves in order and prepared for

their procession. At the ringing of Ave Maria the great crowd linked in

files and turned their faces towards the Corso.

Bruno walked first, carrying from his stalwart breast a standard, on

which was inscribed, under the title of the "Republic of Man," the

words, "Give us this day our daily bread." Rossi had meant to walk

immediately behind Bruno, but he found himself encircled by a group of

his followers. No sovereign was ever surrounded by more watchful guards.

By the spontaneous consent of the public, traffic in the street was

suspended, and crowds of the people of the city had turned out to look

on. The four tiers of the Pincian Hill were packed with spectators, and

every window and balcony in the Corso was filled with faces. All the

shops were shut, and many of them were barricaded within and without. A

regiment of infantry was ranged along the edge of the pavement, and the

people passed between two lines of rifles.

As the procession went on it was constantly augmented, and the column,

which had been four abreast when it started from the Popolo, was eight

abreast before it reached the end of the Corso. There were no bands of

music, and there was no singing, but at intervals some one at the head

of the procession would begin to clap, and then the clapping of hands

would run down the street like the rattle of musketry.

Going up the narrow streets beyond the Venezia, the people passed into

the Forum--out of the living city of the present into the dead city of

the past, with its desolation and its silence, its chaos of broken

columns and cornices, of corbels and capitals, of wells and

watercourses, lying in the waste where they had been left by the

earthquake which had passed over them, the earthquake of the ages--and

so on through the arch of Titus to the meeting-place in the Coliseum.

All this time David Rossi's restless eyes had passed nervously from side

to side. Coming down the Corso he had been dimly conscious of eyes

looking at him from windows and balconies. He was struggling to be calm

and firm, but he was in a furnace of dread, and beneath his breath he

was praying from time to time that God would prevent accident and avert

bloodshed. He was also praying for strength of spirit and feeling like a

guilty coward. His face was deadly pale, the fire within seemed to

consume the grosser senses, and he walked along like a man in a dream.