ing a firm grasp for them on the rungs, sent them down, one after the other, with the assistance of more firemen.
“First came the woman who had clung to the balcony, then a baby, then another woman, then an old man. All were saved. After the old man, the firemen who had remained inside descended. The last to come down was the corporal who had been the first to hasten up. The crowd received them all with a burst of applause; but when the last made his appearance, the vanguard of the rescuers, the one who had faced the abyss in advance of the rest, the one who would have perished had it been fated that one should perish, the crowd saluted him like a conqueror, shouting and stretching out their arms, with an affectionate impulse of admiration and of gratitude, and in a few minutes his obscure name—Giuseppe Robbino—rang from a thousand throats.
“Have you understood? That is courage—the courage of the heart, which does not reason, which does not waver, which dashes blindly on, like a lightning flash, wherever it hears the cry of a dying man. One of these days I will take you to the exercises of the firemen, and I will point out to you Corporal Robbino; for you would be very glad to know him, would you not?”
I replied that I should.
“Here he is,” said my father.
I turned round with a start. The two firemen, having completed their inspection, were crossing the room to the door.
My father pointed to the smaller of the men, who
