David Rossi stood by his desk at the farther end of the room. This was

the last night of his editorship of the Sunrise, and by various silent

artifices the staff were showing their sympathy with the man who had

made the paper and was forced to leave it.

The excitement within the office of the Sunrise corresponded to the

commotion outside. The city was in a ferment, and from time to time

unknown persons, the spontaneous reporters of tumultuous days, were

brought in from the outer office to give the editor the latest news of

the night. Another trainful of people had arrived from Milan! Still

another from Bologna and Carrara! The storm was growing! Soon would be

heard the crash of war! Their faces were eager and their tone was one of

triumph. They pitched their voices high, so as to be heard above the

reverberation of the machines, whose deep thud in the rooms below made

the walls vibrate like the side of a ship at sea.

David Rossi did not catch the contagion of their joy. At every fresh

announcement his face clouded. The unofficial head of the surging and

straining democracy, which was filling itself hourly with hopes and

dreams, was unhappy and perplexed. He was trying to write his last

message to his people, and he could not get it clear because his own

mind was confused.

"Romans," he wrote first, "your rulers are preparing to resist your

right of meeting, and you will have nothing to oppose to the muskets and

bayonets of their soldiers but the bare breasts of a brave but peaceful

people. No matter. Fifty, a hundred, five hundred of you killed at the

first volley, and the day is won! The reactionary Government of

Italy--all the reactionary Governments of Europe--will be borne down lay

the righteous indignation of the world."

It would not do! He had no right to lead the people to certain

slaughter, and he tore up his manifesto and began again.

"Romans," he wrote the second time, "when reforms cannot be effected

without the spilling of blood, the time for them has not yet come, and

it is the duty of a brave and peaceful people to wait for the silent

operation of natural law and the mighty help of moral forces. Therefore

at the eleventh hour I call upon you, in the names of your wives and

children...."

It was impossible! The people would think he was afraid, and the

opportune moment would be lost.

One man in the office of the Sunrise was entirely outside the circle

of its electric currents. This was the former day-editor, who had been

appointed by the proprietors to take Rossi's place, and was now walking

about with a silk hat on his head, taking note of everything and

exercising a premature and gratuitous supervision.




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