he can neither avenge himself nor reply, is like insulting a man whose hands are tied: it is cowardly.”
Franti disappeared. The soldiers were marching by fours, all perspiring and covered with dust, and their guns were gleaming in the sun. The principal said:—
“You ought to wish the soldiers well, boys. They are our defenders, who would go to be killed for our sakes, if a foreign army were to menace our country to-morrow. They are boys to; they are not many years older than you; and they, too, go to school; and there are poor and rich among them, just as there are among you, and they come from every part of Italy. See if you can recognize them by their faces: Sicilians are passing, and Sardinians, and Neapolitans, and Lombards. This is an old regiment, one of those which fought in 1848. They are not the same soldiers, but the flag is still the same. How many died for our country around that banner twenty years before you were born!”
“Here it is!” said Garrone. And in fact, not far off, the flag was visible, advancing, above the heads of the soldiers.
“Do one thing, my sons,” said the head-master; “make your scholar's salute, with your hand to your brow, when the tricolor passes.”
The flag, borne by an officer, passed before us, all tattered and faded, and with the medals attached to the staff. We put our hands to our foreheads, all together. The officer looked at us with a smile, and returned our salute with his hand.
“Bravo, boys!” said some one behind us. We
