Vittoria | Page 5

eye the
landscape; possibly also to get their breath. They were Italians. Two
were fair-haired muscular men, bronzed by the sun and roughly
bearded, bearing the stamp of breed of one or other of the hill-cities

under the Alps. A third looked a sturdy soldier, squareset and hard of
feature, for whom beauties of scenery had few awakening charms. The
remaining couple were an old man and a youth, upon whose shoulder
the veteran leaned, and with a whimsical turn of head and eye,
indicative of some playful cast of mind, poured out his remarks upon
the objects in sight, and chuckled to himself, like one who has learnt
the necessity to appreciate his own humour if he is disposed to indulge
it. He was carelessly wrapped about in long loose woollen stuff, but the
youth was dressed like a Milanese cavalier of the first quality, and was
evidently one who would have been at home in the fashionable Corso.
His face was of the sweetest virile Italian beauty. The head was long,
like a hawk's, not too lean, and not sharply ridged from a rapacious
beak, but enough to show characteristics of eagerness and promptitude.
His eyes were darkest blue, the eyebrows and long disjoining eyelashes
being very dark over them, which made their colour precious. The nose
was straight and forward from the brows; a fluent black moustache ran
with the curve of the upper lip, and lost its line upon a smooth olive
cheek. The upper lip was firmly supported by the under, and the chin
stood freely out from a fine neck and throat.
After a space an Austrian war-steamer was discerned puffing out of the
harbour of Laveno.
"That will do," said the old man. "Carlo, thou son of Paolo, we will
stump upward once more. Tell me, hulloa, sir! are the best peaches
doomed to entertain vile, domiciliary, parasitical insects? I ask you,
does nature exhibit motherly regard, or none, for the regions of the
picturesque? None, I say. It is an arbitrary distinction of our day. To
complain of the intrusion of that black-yellow flag and foul smoke- line
on the lake underneath us is preposterous, since, as you behold, the
heavens make no protestation. Let us up. There is comfort in exercise,
even for an ancient creature such as I am. This mountain is my brother,
and flatters me not--I am old."
"Take my arm, dear Agostino," said the youth.
"Never, my lad, until I need it. On, ahead of me, goat! chamois! and
teach me how the thing used to be done in my time. Old legs must be

the pupils of young ones mark that piece of humility, and listen with
respectfulness to an old head by-and-by."
It was the autumn antecedent to that memorable Spring of the great
Italian uprising, when, though for a tragic issue, the people of Italy first
felt and acted as a nation, and Charles Albert, called the Sword of Italy,
aspired, without comprehension of the passion of patriotism by which it
was animated, to lead it quietly into the fold of his Piedmontese
kingship.
There is not an easier or a pleasanter height to climb than the Motterone,
if, in Italian heat, you can endure the disappointment of seeing the
summit, as you ascend, constantly flit away to a farther station. It
seems to throw its head back, like a laughing senior when children
struggle up for kissings. The party of five had come through the vines
from Stresa and from Baveno. The mountain was strange to them, and
they had already reckoned twice on having the topmost eminence in
view, when reaching it they found themselves on a fresh plateau,
traversed by wild water-courses, and browsed by Alpine herds; and
again the green dome was distant. They came to the highest chalet,
where a hearty wiry young fellow, busily employed in making cheese,
invited them to the enjoyment of shade and fresh milk. "For the sake of
these adolescents, who lose much and require much, let it be so," said
Agostino gravely, and not without some belief that he consented to rest
on behalf of his companions. They allowed the young mountaineer to
close the door, and sat about his fire like sagacious men. When cooled
and refreshed, Agostino gave the signal for departure, and returned
thanks for hospitality. Money was not offered and not expected. As
they were going forth the mountaineer accompanied them to the step on
the threshold, and with a mysterious eagerness in his eyes, addressed
Agostino.
"Signore, is it true?--the king marches?"
"Who is the king, my friend?" returned Agostino. "If he marches out of
his dominions, the king confers a blessing on his people perchance."
"Our king, signore!" The mountaineer waved his finger as from Novara

toward Milan.
Agostino seemed