CHAPTER XX.

by Louisa May Alcott

　　COME.In a small Italian town not far from Rome, a traveller stood listeningto an account of a battle lately fought near by, in which the town hadsuffered much, yet been forever honored in the eyes of its inhabitants,by having been the headquarters of the Hero of Italy. An inquiry of thetraveller's concerning a countryman of whom he was in search, created asensation at the little inn, and elicited the story of the battle, oneincident of which was still the all-absorbing topic with the excitedvillagers. This was the incident which one of the group related with thedramatic effects of a language composed almost as much of gesture as ofwords, and an audience as picturesque as could well be conceived.While the fight was raging on the distant plain, a troop of maraudingCroats dashed into the town, whose defenders, although outnumbered,contested every inch of ground, while slowly driven back toward theconvent, the despoiling of which was the object of the attack. Thisconvent was both hospital and refuge, for there were gathered women andchildren, the sick, the wounded, and the old. To secure the safety ofthese rather than of the sacred relics, the Italians were bent onholding the town till the reinforcement for which they had sent couldcome up. It was a question of time, and every moment brought nearer thedestruction of the helpless garrison, trembling behind the conventwalls. A brutal massacre was in store for them if no help came; andremembering this the red-shirted Garibaldians fought as if they welldeserved their sobriquet of "Scarlet Demons."Help did come, not from below, but from above. Suddenly a cannonthundered royally, and down the narrow street rushed a deathfuldefiance, carrying disorder and dismay to the assailants, joy and wonderto the nearly exhausted defenders. Wonder, for well they knew the gunhad stood silent and unmanned since the retreat of the enemy two daysbefore, and this unexpected answer to their prayers seemed Heaven-sent.Those below looked up as they fought, those above looked down as theyfeared, and midway between all saw that a single man held the gun. Astalwart figure, bareheaded, stern faced, sinewy armed, fitfully seenthrough clouds of smoke and flashes of fire, working with a silentenergy that seemed almost superhuman to the eyes of the superstitioussouls, who believed they saw and heard the convent's patron saintproclaiming their salvation with a mighty voice.This belief inspired the Italians, caused a panic among the Croats, andsaved the town. A few rounds turned the scale, the pursued became thepursuers, and when the reinforcement arrived there was little for it todo but join in the rejoicing and salute the brave cannoneer, who provedto be no saint, but a stranger come to watch the battle, and thusopportunely lend his aid.Enthusiastic were the demonstrations; vivas, blessings, tears,handkissing, and invocation of all the saints in the calendar, till itwas discovered that the unknown gentleman had a bullet in his breastand was in need of instant help. Whereupon the women, clustering abouthim like bees, bore him away to the wounded ward, where the inmates roseup in their beds to welcome him, and the clamorous crowd were withdifficulty persuaded to relinquish him to the priest, the surgeon, andthe rest he needed. Nor was this all; the crowning glory of the event tothe villagers was the coming of the Chief at nightfall, and the sceneabout the stranger's bed. Here the narrator glowed with pride, the womenin the group began to sob, and the men took off their caps, with blackeyes 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 holyParadise--Speranza was washing the smoke and powder from him, the woundwas 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 manwho smiled but said no word to us. Then comes the Chief,--silenzio, tillI finish!--he comes, they have told him, he stays at the bed, he looksdown, the fine eye shines, he takes the hand, he says low--'I thankyou,'--he lays his cloak,--the gray cloak we know and love so well--overthe wounded breast, and so goes on. We cry out, but what does thefriend? Behold! he lifts himself, he lays the cloak upon my Beppo, hesays in that so broken way of his--'Comrade, the honor is for you whogave 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!'"The cry was caught up by all the listeners in a whirlwind ofenthusiastic loyalty, and the stranger joined in it, thrilled with anequal love and honor for the Patriot Soldier, whose name upon Italianlips means liberty."Where is he now, this friend of mine, so nearly lost, so happilyfound?"A dozen hands pointed to the convent, a dozen brown faces lighted up,and a dozen eager voices poured out directions, messages, andbenedictions in a breath. Ordering his carriage to follow presently, thetraveller rapidly climbed the steep road, guided by signs he could notwell mistake. The convent gate stood open, and he paused for nopermission to enter, for looking through it, down the green vista of anorchard 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 findyou when you have no need of me.""I always need you, but am not always needed. I went away because theold restlessness came upon me in that dead city Rome. You were happythere, but I scented war, followed and found it by instinct, and havehad enough of it. Look at my hands."He laughed as he showed them, still bruised and blackened with the hardusage they had received; nothing else but a paler shade of color fromloss of blood, showed that he had passed through any suffering ordanger."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 calmEnglish."But Warwick was slow to do so being the hero of the tale, and very briefwas the reply Moor got."I came to watch, but found work ready for me. It is not clear to meeven now what I did, nor how I did it. One of my Berserker ragespossessed me I fancy; my nerves and muscles seemed made of steel andgutta percha; the smell of powder intoxicated, and the sense of powerwas grand. The fire, the smoke, the din were all delicious, and I feltlike a giant, as I wielded that great weapon, dealing many deaths with asingle pair of hands.""The savage in you got the mastery just then; I've seen it, and haveoften wondered how you managed to control it so well. Now it has had aholiday 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 amouldy palace?""You think to slip away from the subject, do you? and after facing deathat a cannon's breach expect me to be satisfied with an ordinarygreeting? I won't have it; I insist upon asking as many questions as Ilike, hearing about the wound and seeing if it is doing well. Where isit?"Warwick showed it, a little purple spot above his heart. Moor's facegrew anxious as he looked, but cleared again as he examined it, for theball 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 Imight have looked for you in vain.""This heart of mine is a tough organ, bullet-proof, I dare say, though Iwear no breastplate.""But this!" Involuntarily Moor's eye asked the question his lips did notutter as he touched a worn and faded case hanging on the broad breastbefore him. Silently Warwick opened it, showing not Sylvia's face butthat of an old woman, rudely drawn in sepia; the brown tints bringingout the marked features as no softer hue could have done, and giving toeach line a depth of expression that made the serious countenancesingularly lifelike and attractive.Now Moor saw where Warwick got both keen eyes and tender mouth, as wellas all the gentler traits that softened his strong character; and feltthat no other woman ever had or ever would hold so dear a place as theold mother whose likeness he had drawn and hung where other men wearimages of mistress or of wife. With a glance as full of penitence as theother had been of disquiet, Moor laid back the little case, drew bandageand blouse over both wound and picture, and linked his arm in Warwick'sas he asked--"Who shot you?""How can I tell? I knew nothing of it till that flock of women fell tokissing these dirty hands of mine; then I was conscious of a stingingpain in my shoulder, and a warm stream trickling down my side. I lookedto see what was amiss, whereat the good souls set up a shriek, tookpossession of me, and for half an hour wept and wailed over me in afrenzy of emotion and good-will that kept me merry in spite of thesurgeon's probes and the priest's prayers. The appellations showeredupon 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 ofgold'?""Cannonading suits your spirits excellently; I remember your telling methat you had tried and liked it. But there is to be no more of it, Ihave other plans for you. Before I mention them tell me of the interviewwith Garibaldi.""That now is a thing to ask one about; a thing to talk of and takepride in all one's days. I was half asleep and thought myself dreamingtill he spoke. A right noble face, Geoffrey--full of thought and power;the look of one born to command others because master of himself. Asquare strong frame; no decorations, no parade; dressed like his men,yet as much the chief as if he wore a dozen orders on his scarletshirt.""Where is the cloak? I want to see and touch it; surely you kept it as arelic?""Not I. Having seen the man, what do I care for the garment that coveredhim. I keep the hand shake, the 'Grazia, grazia,' for my share. PoorBeppo 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 forall 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 unableto 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 faceto kindle with all the joy betrayed in that of his friend, none of theimpatience nor anxiety."What can I say to show you my content? The months have seemed very longto you, but now comes the reward. The blessed little letter! so likeherself; the slender slip, the delicate handwriting, the three happywords,--'Geoffrey, come home.'"Moor did not speak, but still looked up anxiously, inquiringly; andWarwick answered with a glance he could not doubt."Have no fears for me. I share the joy as heartily as I shared thesorrow; neither can separate us any more.""Thank heaven for that! But, Adam, may I accept this good gift and besure I am not robbing you again? You never speak of the past, how is itwith you now?""Quite well and happy; the pain is gone, the peace remains. I would nothave it otherwise. Six months have cured the selfishness of love, andleft 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 twoextremes of love. I am glad to have known both; each has helped me, andeach will be remembered while I live. But having gained the experience Ican relinquish the unconscious bestowers of it, if it is not best tokeep them. Believe that I do this without regret, and freely enjoy thehappiness that comes to you.""I will, but not as I once should; for though I feel that you needneither sympathy nor pity, still, I seem to take so much and leave younothing.""You leave me myself, better and humbler than before. In the fierce halfhour I lived not long ago, I think a great and needful change waswrought in me. All lives are full of such, coming when least looked for,working out the end through unexpected means. The restless, domineeringdevil that haunted me was cast out then; and during the quiet time thatfollowed a new spirit entered in and took possession.""What is it, Adam?""I cannot tell, yet I welcome it. This peaceful mood may not lastperhaps, but it brings me that rare moment--pity that it is so rare, andbut a moment--when we seem to see temptation at our feet; when we areconscious of a willingness to leave all in God's hand, ready forwhatever He may send; feeling that whether it be suffering or joy weshall 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 sawthe desire and design of his friend's life; saw it because it wasaccomplished, and for the instant Adam Warwick was what he aspired tobe. A goodly man, whose stalwart body seemed a fit home for a strongsoul, wise with the wisdom of a deep experience, genial with the virtuesof an upright life, devout with that humble yet valiant piety whichcomes through hard-won victories over "the world, the flesh, and thedevil." Despite the hope that warmed his heart, Moor felt poor besidehim, as a new reverence warmed the old affection. His face showed itthough he did not speak, and Warwick laid an arm about his shoulders ashe had often done of late when they were alone, drawing him gently onagain, 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 towardfilling 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 Warwicksmoothed it carefully in his large hand, eyeing it as if he wished therewere some little word for him."True, but in the few letters she has written there always comes amessage to you, though you never write a line; nor would you go to hernow had she sent for you alone; she knew that, and sends for me, surethat you will follow.""Being a woman she cannot quite forgive me for loving her too well tomake 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 whilehence.""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 inpower and virtue, and coming often to us when we get fairly back intoour former ways, for you are still the house friend.""I was wondering, as I walked here, what my next summons would be, whenlo, you came. Go on, I'll follow you; one could hardly have a betterguide.""You are sure you are able, Adam?""Shall I uproot a tree or fling you over the wall to convince you, youmotherly body? I am nearly whole again, and a breath of sea air willcomplete the cure. Let me cover my head, say farewell to the goodSisters, and I shall be glad to slip away without furtherdemonstrations from the volcanoes below there."Laying one hand on the low wall, Warwick vaulted over with a backwardglance at Moor, who followed to the gateway, there to wait till theadieux were over. Very brief they were, and presently Warwickreappeared, evidently touched yet ill-pleased at something, for he bothsmiled and frowned as he paused on the threshold as if loth to go. Alittle white goat came skipping from the orchard, and seeing thestranger took refuge at Warwick's knee. The act of the creature seemedto suggest a thought to the man. Pulling off the gay handkerchief somegrateful woman had knotted round his neck, he fastened it about thegoat'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 unlessthey leave their substance behind, as I am trying to do. The kindcreatures cannot refuse it now; so trot away to your mistress, littleNanna, and tell no tales as you go."As the goat went tapping up the steps a stir within announced thedreaded demonstration. Warwick did not seem to hear it; he stood lookingfar across the trampled plain and ruined town toward the mountainsshining white against the deep Italian sky. A rapt, far-reaching look,as if he saw beyond the purple wall, and seeing forgot the present insome 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 skyabove them, a hungry sea below them, the two stood together the last toleave a sinking ship."Room for one more, choose quick!" shouted a hoarse voice from the boattossing 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 ofself-preservation rules supreme, and each is for himself, except thosein whom love of another is stronger than love of life. Even while thefriends generously contended the boat was swept away, and they were leftalone 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 deathto die in sight of shore. But Warwick never knew despair; passivesubmission 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 lingerthere; other boats less heavily laden had put off before, and mightdrift across their track; wreckers waiting on the shore might hear andhelp; at least it were better to die bravely and not "strike sail to afear." About his waist still hung a fragment of the rope which hadlowered more than one baby to its mother's arms; before them theshattered taffrail rose and fell as the waves beat over it. Wrenching aspar away he lashed Moor to it, explaining his purpose as he worked.There was only rope enough for one, and in the darkness Moor believedthat 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 giveher this."In the black night with only Heaven to see them the men kissed tenderlyas women, then hand in hand sprang out into the sea. Drenched andblinded they struggled up after the first plunge, and struck out for theshore, guided by the thunder of the surf they had listened to for twelvelong hours, as it broke against the beach, and brought no help on itsreceding billows. Soon Warwick was the only one who struggled, forMoor'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 lighthold fast, I'll save you for thelittle wife at home."Moor heard but two words, "wife" and "home;" strained his dim eyes tosee the light, spent his last grain of strength to reach it, and in theact lost consciousness, whispering--"She will thank you," as his headfell against Warwick's breast and lay there, heavy and still. Liftinghimself above the spar, Adam lent the full power of his voice to theshout he sent ringing through the storm. He did not call in vain, afriendly wind took the cry to human ears, a relenting wave swept themwithin the reach of human aid, and the boat's crew, pausinginvoluntarily, saw a hand clutch the suspended oar, a face flash up fromthe 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 thecoming wave would sweep them far apart. A woman sobbed, and as if movedby one impulse four sturdy arms clutched and drew Moor in. Whileloosening his friend Warwick had forgotten himself, and the spar wasgone. He knew it, but the rest believed that they left the strong man achance of life equal to their own in that overladen boat. Yet in thememories of all who caught that last glimpse of him there long remainedthe recollection of a dauntless face floating out into the night, asteady voice calling through the gale, "A good voyage, comrades!" as heturned away to enter port before them.Wide was the sea and pitiless the storm, but neither could dismay theunconquerable spirit of the man who fought against the elements asbravely as if they were adversaries of mortal mould, and might bevanquished in the end. But it was not to be; soon he felt it, acceptedit, turned his face upward toward the sky, where one star shone, andwhen Death whispered "Come!" answered as cheerily as to that otherfriend, "I am ready." Then with a parting thought for the man he hadsaved, the woman he had loved, the promise he had kept, a great andtender heart went down into the sea.* * * * *Sometimes the Sculptor, whose workshop is the world, fuses many metalsand casts a noble statue; leaves it for humanity to criticise, and whentime has mellowed both beauties and blemishes, removes it to that innerstudio, there to be carved in enduring marble.Adam Warwick was such an one; with much alloy and many flaws; butbeneath all defects the Master's eye saw the grand lines that were toserve as models for the perfect man, and when the design had passedthrough all necessary processes,--the mould of clay, the furnace fire,the test of time,--He washed the dust away, and pronounced it ready forthe marble.