“courage,” he was pressing his handkerchief on the wound.
The boy rolled his eyes wildly and dropped his head back. He was dead. The officer turned pale and stood for a moment gazing at him. He laid him down carefully on his cloak upon the grass; then rose and stood looking at him. The sergeant and two soldiers also stood motionless, gazing upon him. The rest were facing the direction of the enemy.
“Poor boy!” repeated the officer. “Poor, brave boy!”
He approached the house, removed the tricolor from the window, and spread it like a shroud over the little dead boy, leaving his face uncovered. The sergeant collected the dead boy's shoes, his cap, his little stick, and his knife, and placed them beside him. They stood for a few moments longer in silence; then the officer turned to the sergeant and said to him,
“We will send the ambulance for him: he died as a soldier; the soldiers shall bury him.” Having said this, he threw a kiss to the dead boy, and shouted “To horse!” All sprang into the saddle, the troop drew together and resumed its road.
And a few hours later the little dead boy received the honors of war.
At sunset the whole line of the Italian advance-posts marched forward towards the foe; and along the same road which had been traversed in the morning by the detachment of cavalry, there proceeded, in two files, a heavy battalion of sharpshooters, who, a few days before, had valiantly watered the hill of San Martino with blood. The news of the boy's death had al-
