I

Early on the morning of Holy Saturday a little crowd of Italians stood

on the open space in front of the platform at the Bahnhof of Zürich.

Most of them wore the blue smocks and peaked caps of porters and

street-sweepers, but in the centre of the group was a tall man in a

frockcoat and a soft felt hat.

It was Rossi. He was noticeably changed since his flight from Rome. His

bronzed face was paler, his cheeks thinner, his dark eyes looked larger,

his figure stooped perceptibly, and he had the air of a man who was

struggling to conceal a consuming nervousness.

The bell rang for the starting of a train and Rossi shook hands with

everybody.

"Going straight through, Honourable?"

"No, I shall sleep at Milan to-night and go on to Rome in the morning."

"Addio, Onorevole!"

"Addio!"

The moment the train started, Rossi gave himself up to thoughts of Roma.

Where was she now? He closed his eyes and tried to picture her. She was

reading his letter. He recalled particular passages, and saw the smile

with which she read them. Peace be with her! The light pressure of her

soft fingers was on his hands already, and through the tran-tran of

the train he could hear her softest tones.

Nature as well as humanity seemed to smile on Rossi that day. He thought

the lakes had never looked so lovely. It was early when they ran along

the shores of Lucerne, and the white mists, wrapping themselves up on

the mountains, were gliding away like ghosts. One after another the

great peaks looked over each other's shoulders, covered with pines as

with vast armies crossing the Alps, thick at the bottom and with thinner

files of daring spirits at the top. The sun danced on the waters of the

lake like fairies on a floor of glass, and when the train stopped at

Fluelen the sound of waterfalls mingled with the singing of birds and

the ringing of the church bells. It was the Gloria. All the earth was

singing its Gloria. "Glory to God in the highest."

Rossi's happiness became almost boyish as the train approached Italy.

When the great tunnel was passed through, the signs of a new race came

thick and fast. Shrines of the Madonna, instead of shrines of the

Christ; long lines of field-workers, each with his hoe, instead of

little groups with the plough; grey oxen with great horns and slow step,

instead of brisk horses with tinkling bells.

Signs of doubtful augury for the most part, but Rossi was in no mood to

think of that. He let down the carriage window that he might drink in

the air of his own country. In spite of his opinions he could not help

doing that. The mystic call that comes to a man's heart from the soil

that gave him birth was coming to him also. He heard the voice of the

vine-dresser in the vineyard singing of love--always of love. He saw the

oranges and lemons, and the roses white and red. He caught a glimpse of

the first of the little cities high up on the crags, with its walls and

tower, and Campo Santo outside. His lips parted, his breast swelled. It

was home! Home!




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