Hey! old man of the people. Thy
benefactress. . . ."
"I am old," muttered Giorgio Viola. "An Englishwoman was allowed to give
a bed to Garibaldi lying wounded in prison. The greatest man that ever
lived. A man of the people, too--a sailor. I may let another keep a
roof over my head. Si . . . I am old. I may let her. Life lasts too long
sometimes."
"And she herself may not have a roof over her head before many days are
out, unless I . . . What do you say? Am I to keep a roof over her head?
Am I to try--and save all the Blancos together with her?"
"You shall do it," said old Viola in a strong voice. "You shall do it as
my son would have. . . ."
"Thy son, viejo! .. .. There never has been a man like thy son. Ha, I
must try. . . . But what if it were only a part of the curse to lure me
on? . . . And so she called upon me to save--and then----?"
"She spoke no more." The heroic follower of Garibaldi, at the thought
of the eternal stillness and silence fallen upon the shrouded form
stretched out on the bed upstairs, averted his face and raised his hand
to his furrowed brow.
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