Coretti asked his father whether Prince Umberto had carried his sword in his hand when he was in a battle.
“Certainly, he held his sword in his hand,” the latter replied, “to ward off a blow from a lance, which might strike him as well as another. Ah! those unchained demons! They came down on us like the wrath of God. They swept between the platoons, the squadrons, the cannon, as though tossed by a hurricane, crushing down everything. There was a whirl of light cavalry of Alessandria, of lancers of Foggia, of infantry, of sharp-shooters, a pandemonium in which nothing could be understood. I heard the shout, ‘Your Highness! your Highness!’ I saw the lowered lances approaching; we discharged our guns; a cloud of smoke hid everything. Then the smoke cleared away. The ground was covered with horses and uhlans, wounded or dead. I turned round, and beheld Umberto in our midst, on horseback, gazing tranquilly about, with the air of demanding, ‘Have any of my lads received a scratch?’ And we shouted, ‘Hurrah!’ right in his face, like madmen. Heavens, what a moment that was! Here's the train coming!”
The band struck up; the officers hastened forward; the crowd stood on tiptoe.
“Eh, he won't come out in a hurry,” said a policeman; “they are presenting him with an address now.”
The elder Coretti was beside himself with impatience.
“Ah! when I think of it,” he said, “I always see him there. Of course, there is cholera and there are earthquakes; and in them, too, he bears himself bravely; but I always have him before my mind as I saw him
