"Captain Felice Solaro, your Excellency."
"Ah! Solaro! Solaro!" exclaimed Morini, tossing away his cigar. "Show
them in."
And as he passed before the tiny mirror he glanced at himself to adjust
his cravat and see that not a single hair was awry--a habit of his
before giving audience.
A few moments later two men in uniform were ushered in. The general,
short of stature, white-haired, with firm military step, a red face, and
white moustache, saluted and stood at attention as he entered the
Minister's presence; while the captain, a smart-looking, dark-haired man
of forty, followed his superior's example, yet as Morini darted a quick
glance at him, he visibly trembled at it. The captain's face was white
as death, and as he stood for a moment in the awkward silence that
followed, his gloved fingers chafed his sword hilt nervously.
"Well, general?" inquired the Minister, who had never before met that
distinguished officer, but whom he, of course, knew well by repute.
Valentini had been Inspector-General of Genio fifteen years ago, and had
served Italy well in those fierce campaigns of the early sixties, as his
row of medals and decorations showed. "Why do you wish for audience?"
he asked sharply.
"Your Excellency, I am here to crave for a more merciful sentence upon
this man," the kindly old officer answered, turning to the captain, who
stood with head bowed at his side. "I am his commanding officer, and in
justice I wish to intercede for him."