The earnest little fellow carrying his bird in a basket was now a familiar object in Venice and attracted much attention from tourists and bystanders who often collected in little groups to watch the graceful flights. To some it was the subject of jest, and to them it seemed nothing short of folly to spend so much time in the training of a pigeon, while others were loud in exclamations of delight.
"Bello! Bello Colombo! [Footnote: Beautiful! Beautiful pigeon!] He's a mighty fine bird, my boy!"
As for Chico, one could see that he greatly enjoyed his experience. He no longer showed resentment at being shut up in the basket, but evidently considered that a necessary prelude to his glorious flights.
One morning Andrea set out for the Arsenal, which is, as every one acquainted with the city knows, one of the show places of Venice. In the olden days, when the Venetians were first in the art of shipbuilding, it was the working spring of their strength, their enemies looking upon the stronghold with envious eyes as symbolizing her supremacy over the Adriatic, and even now there was always a large number of strangers in its vicinity.
Andrea approached and took his station, near one of the two great lions that guard the entrance. He was accosted by a well-dressed Austrian:
"What have you there, my boy? Anything to sell?"
"No, signore," was the quick reply. But Andrea, intent upon his mission, felt vaguely disturbed, liking neither the looks of the man nor the tone of his inquiry.
Silently and with evident envy the man watched the pigeon's joyous spiral; then he again addressed the boy:
"Come, now, what will you take for him! Twenty lire! [Footnote: A lire in ordinary times is worth about twenty cents.] A. hundred? You must admit that is a high price for a pigeon when it would be so easy a matter to replace him. There are hundreds of pigeons in Venice."
"He is not for sale!" Andrea answered curtly, wishing the man would leave him alone.
The stranger turned sullenly, not liking to be baffled, muttering under his breath, "That bird would be worth any amount of money to me if I could but secure him for the War Department in Vienna!"
As for Chico his troubles for the day had only begun. By chance he flew somewhat lower than was usual with him, and thus attracted the attention of a shabby, ill-looking fellow who with gun in hand was wandering about the side streets, hoping he might be so fortunate as to get a shot at some fat pigeon for a pot-pie.
After a quick glance to be sure no sharpnosed guard was in sight, he raised his gun and fired. Startled by the report Chico quickened his flight, and the bullet whizzed past merely grazing one wing and inflicting a slight wound on his left leg. The pain, however, was sharp and caused him to slow down, so that he did not reach his destination until some time after Andrea had returned, much to the anxiety of his friends.
When he finally fluttered, exhausted, into the nest, the old caretaker caught sight of the bloodstain, and exclaimed in alarm, "Chico, my bird, what happened?" while Andrea, fairly beside himself, mourned as he stroked his wounded pet.
"It was the Austrian! I know It was! I liked not his words nor the expression of his eyes. And now Chico is going to die!"
"Nay, lad," Paolo answered, after carefully examining the leg. "It is only a flesh wound, and he will soon be himself again. As for the Austrian—I doubt very much if such was the case. I judge, from what you say, that he is quite too anxious to get possession of the bird to run any risk of harming him. More likely some greedy fellow shot him for a pie. I have known such things to happen in Venice."
"Shot for a pot-pie!" repeated Andrea, hot with indignation, while Maria whispered, "Poor Chico! Poor Chico!" at the same time gently touching the bird's head, who responded with a mournful "coo."
For a few days the bird drooped and was quite an invalid: it was more than a week before he ventured beyond the friendly precincts of St. Mark's Square.
But he had learned a lesson which, later on, stood him in good stead, for ever after he took care to fly far above the reach of cruel gunners.
Several weeks after this incident, Paolo himself took the pigeon to Chioggia, some fifteen miles from Venice. However famous this little Italian town may be because of the battle that was fought there in the long ago, between the Venetians and the Genoese, it is now known chiefly as a fishing village and a picturesque spot where artists love to congregate.
On leaving the steamer the old man, not wishing to attract attention, avoided the broad street, with its arcades and cafes, instead picking his way along the canal, packed with fishing craft of every description, until he to a superb white bridge, the pride of the little town.
There he paused, and thinking himself quite away from inquisitive spectators, loosed the bird and stood a few moments watching him speeding his way above the beautiful white arch towards home.
How strong were the graceful wings, and how steady the flight!
It was a warm day in early spring; he threw himself on the bank of the canal grass thinking how pleasant it was on the water's edge. Suddenly a voice sounded in his ears causing him to start visibly:
"Surely, it must be a pleasant occupation to be a pigeon fancier."
The tone was ingratiating, but resenting the intrusion, Paolo looked around and caught an expression that belied the smooth words, and made him instinctively distrust the stranger who had accosted him.
He did not answer, and the man pursued: "No wonder, when you have so fine a bird. May I ask for what particular purpose you are training him?"
"Only for a boy's pleasure," was the short reply. Paolo immediately surmised that this was he of whom Andrea had told him.
As he rose to go, the man went on, still more suavely: "By the way, I have a very special reason why I should like a carrier pigeon." He lowered his voice. "And am prepared to pay any amount for him; will you not set a price?"
Paolo emphatically shook his head. "He can't be bought! I tell you the bird is not for sale!" And with that the old caretaker walked away.
He was troubled, and the remainder of the time before the steamer sailed walked the narrow streets, too much disturbed over the incident to notice the women in the doorways making lace and the children sitting on the ground beside the narrow footpaths, their fingers busy knitting or stringing beads.
He did not know that the Austrian followed him, and that, on reaching the quay, the intruder chose a seat on the other side of the steamer. It is no wonder that the artists go wild over the harbor, dotted as it is with picturesque sails of yellow, blue, or red. Just beyond is Palestrina, equally interesting, and known as the "narrowest town on earth," while a little farther on the steamer skirts along manifold vegetable gardens, in the midst of settlements whose simple homes are gay in their coloring of pink, yellow, red, or white.
By the time the Lido was reached, the sun was low in the heavens, and soon the lagoon was before them, bright in the roseate rays. After this it was not long before Venice came in sight, more lovely than ever in the first twilight.
With a sigh Paolo stretched his limbs, cramped by sitting so long in one position. He was getting old, he reflected, and found even a few hours' excursion tiring in the extreme. As he made his way towards the Piazza, he decided positively that not one syllable would he breathe to the children of his encounter with the Austrian.
"It would only worry them, and what's the use?" he reflected. "It's old Paolo who must guard Chico"—and he shook his head—"I fear it will be a hard thing to do."
At a safe distance the stranger followed until St. Mark's Square was reached. There he concealed himself behind a column and watched to see the location of Chico's nest.
It was so late that the children had gone home, but Andrea had left a folded paper, weighted by a stone, on the window ledge. Opening it Paolo deciphered, without difficulty, the boy's writing.
"Chico reached home at ten minutes to four."
"Bene!" the old man ejaculated, forgetting his fatigue; "he made it in thirty minutes, and it took me all of three hours."
As he reached his rough hand in through the window and touched affectionately the sleeping bird, the Austrian moved from his position and slunk down a side street. He had found out all he wanted, and his malicious expression changed to one of triumph as he muttered:
"I'll have that bird yet, in spite of the old man!"
Ever since Chico had become grown he had been in the habit of flying from his nest in the early morning for a brief survey of the Piazza. First, he would make his way to the famous well and, after a refreshing bath, would walk about on the ground for a while in search of stray morsels of food, perchance left by tourists the day before. Then, on the way back to his ledge, he would stop for a moment here and there among the statuary for a gossipy "coo" with one and another pigeon friend. But no matter how interested he became in the sights and news of the Square, he was always on his ledge in time to greet his dear human friends, upon whose appearance there would ensue such an excited fluttering of wings and such a delighted cooing that Maria would laugh aloud in glee, while Andrea emptied his pockets of choicest tidbits.
One morning, a few weeks after the trip to Chioggia, as Chico was making his customary early flight, his bright eyes caught sight of some enticing crumbs on the pavement close to the steps leading to the new Campanile. They seemed unusually good, and he lingered for some time pecking, first at one and then another.
Suddenly he was grasped by a strong hand and hastily thrust into a padded dark box.
Poor Chico! His heart fluttered so that he couldn't think. Not but what he was used to being handled, and perhaps his prison was a new kind of basket, but even so he rebelled. There were no friendly cracks through which he could catch an occasional glint of light, but only a few airholes clustered at the top. Then, too, his quarters were so cramped that even the slightest flutter was well-nigh impossible; and, after a few struggles, utterly discouraged, and fearing the worst, he gave up and crouched down, entirely at a loss as to what had happened.
The Austrian, angered at having been thwarted in every attempt he had made to purchase the pigeon, had been watching the bird's habits ever since he had followed the old caretaker, and had deliberately planned to capture him in this way. His prize now secured, he made his way straight for a gondola and gave orders to be rowed with the greatest possible speed to his lodgings, and, on arriving, carried to his room the innocent-appearing black box which resembled nothing so much as a folding kodak.
How satisfied he felt with himself, and how he gloated over the way in which he had outwitted the old man! For a moment he held the box to his ear, as if anxious to assure himself that the bird was still there. Not a sound came from the trembling inmate. Had anything happened? Cautiously unfastening the catch, he reached in his hand and touched the soft head. There was a slight quiver.
Catching hold of the trembling body, he lifted out the bird and feasted his eyes upon him. What a beauty he was! Not so large, to be sure, as some that flit about Venice, but so perfectly marked, and with so broad a breast, and such sweep of wings! He would profit richly by his morning's work. If only he could get his prize safely out of Venice. There was no time to lose. He might be tracked by that old fool of a caretaker, and in that case he would have had his pains for nothing. And if by chance the matter should be brought to the attention of the authorities, he might be arrested and jailed; the Venetians make such a fuss over their precious pigeons.
A knock at the door made him start guiltily and thrust the pigeon roughly back into the box. After all, it was only a messenger with a telegram recalling him immediately to Vienna, which, he reflected, fitted nicely into his plans. He would start the next morning, he concluded, as he carefully concealed the black box under the bed, and took more than usual pains in locking the door when he went out for dinner and to complete his arrangements in regard to leaving.
Chico heard the door close and knew he was alone. What did it all mean? He had never before suffered such indignities! To be placed by loving friends in his dear familiar basket, while he was being taken to some point from which he might make a glorious flight—he had long since become reconciled to that experience; but to be seized by a stranger's hands and ignominiously shoved into a black prison and hidden in a strange room—that was an insult his free spirit could not brook. For a while he felt too utterly despondent to make a movement, but after a little, very cautiously, he began again to feel carefully with his beak around the box in search of some crack. There was not one to be found. Next he tried with all his power to enlarge the tiny airholes. It was impossible, and he gave himself up to blackest despair.
When his captor returned he opened the box, took out the bird, at the same time placing some kernels of corn and a saucer of water before him. Chico had no appetite for food, but parched with thirst drank feverishly.
"Eat! can't you?" The man spoke roughly. What on earth was the matter with the pigeon to be so obstinate? "Hang it, if he won't eat," he exclaimed aloud, "he'll starve to death before I can get him to the War Department."
With that he fairly forced the spiritless head into the pile of kernels on the floor, but without avail; the bird, heart-broken, refused to open his beak. His tail feathers drooped more mournfully than ever, and his captor, thoroughly out of patience, angrily thrust him back into his prison. So the rest of the day and night passed.
The Austrian rose early the next morning and hastily throwing his belongings together was soon on his way to the station, suitcase in one hand and the black box in the other.
At the depot there was more than the usual delay in procuring his ticket. There was a crowd of men and women before him, and, impatiently enough, he was obliged to wait his turn. Worse than anything, he found it necessary to lay aside his possessions. He hesitated, then, after a quick survey of the room, selected a corner near enough for him to keep an eye on his precious box. It seemed an eternity before he could get anywhere near the ticket-office window, and he completely lost what little temper he had when a garrulous woman blocked his way and took fifteen minutes of additional time in an interminable wrangle over change.
In the meantime an inquisitive youngster, left to his own devices by his mother who was also in line before the ticket-office window, was creeping about the floor in search of diversion. After being foiled in various directions, his sharp eyes caught sight of the suit-case and interesting-looking box. Without an instant's hesitation he scrambled thither. As it happened, the Austrian having at last attained his object, was at that very moment engaged in folding the long ticket, his attention, therefore, was diverted from watching his property.
The child fumbled first with the suit-case. It was securely locked. Next he seized the black box with his grimy fingers. It was fastened only with a single strap. As this finally yielded, a look of rapture spread over his Italian features, and with renewed zeal he proceeded to pry open the cover.
Suddenly he gave a shriek, at the same covering his face in terror as something sharp brushed against his cheeks and flashed upwards.
It was Chico! He was free at last! For a moment, dazed by the sudden release, the bird battered his splendid head against the ceiling, then, before the roomful of travelers realized what had happened, he was out in the open, spreading his glorious wings toward home.
When the Austrian, on turning to gather up his possessions, realized what had occurred, he turned in rage toward the frightened child:
"You, you—" He choked in wrath, raising his arm as if to strike. But at that moment the mother threw herself against him, screaming:
"You touch my child! You touch—"
The crowd by this time was closing in upon them, so that even the station guard found it difficult to push his way through in his endeavor to find out the cause of the disturbance.
Suddenly the cry of "All aboard!" was heard, and instantly the excited gathering dispersed, the enraged woman grabbing her child and leading the procession.
Just behind came the Austrian, bearing his suitcase and the empty black box. Fortunate it was for him that the summons had come when it did, for otherwise he might soon have found himself taken into custody on the charge of disturbing the peace, and on the way to a cell in the Venetian prison.
As it was, he sank into his seat in the little train muttering all sorts of imprecations upon the whole Italian people, and thanking his stars he would soon be out of the country.
While all this had been going on, great had been the consternation in St. Mark's Square over Chico's strange disappearance. When the children did not find him waiting, as usual, for them, they were sure he must have been shot, and Andrea mourned constantly, "E morte! E morte!" [Footnote: He is dead.]
But Paolo had his theory, and the more he thought the matter over, the more he felt convinced that the bird was alive and in the possession of the Austrian. Dropping his work for the day, he spent the weary hours going up and down the narrow streets in vain effort to discover some trace of him. From time to time he called, "Chico! Chico!" But, alas, no Chico answered.
Then the night came. Still no news. The next morning Paolo resolved to go to the authorities, and was about to set out when suddenly there was a cry from Maria, who was sitting grieving on the lowest step of the church, watching the pigeons flying about in the blue sky.
"There's Chico!" she exclaimed, greatly excited, and pointing to a small speck, far above them. "It's he! I know it's he!"
"I'm afraid not," the old man answered, shaking his head; "we have been deceived too many times."
But Andrea was leaning forward, his whole form tense with emotion, and, in another moment with radiant face he flung his cap into the air, and leaped to his feet, shouting, joyfully:
"Urra! Urra! It's he! It's he!" and so it proved. No other bird could fly with such strong, sure strokes.
Soon he was in his nest drinking eagerly the water Andrea had placed for him. It was the first thing he always wanted when he returned from a flight, but now he drank more thirstily than usual Then, how he did eat! It was plain he was half starved. There was no mistake about it, he was thin, and his feathers were so bedraggled that it was evident he had not preened them since he had been gone.
But he was home, nothing else mattered!
There was no denying the fact that Chico was a handsome bird, and as time passed, he became more and more careful of his appearance. He would spend fully half an hour each morning over his toilet, smoothing every feather into place with the most exact nicety, polishing his delicately arched bill, and proudly spreading his tail. Then, when the sun shone full upon him, the peculiar markings of his wings seemed fairly radiant in their glorious iridescence.
From the saucy tilt of his dainty head to his graceful feet, he was a BeauBrummel among pigeons.
It was no wonder that his little master's heart swelled with pride, and that he repeated, over and over again, "My Chico is grande; my Chico is—GREAT!"
But there came a time when it was evident that, in spite of the gorgeous appearance he presented, he was not altogether happy.
While he polished his beak and preened his feathers more assiduously than ever, there was a note of pleading in his cooing that puzzled the children, and caused Andrea to remark: "I wonder what can be the matter with Chico!"
In reply Paolo nodded his wise old head and answered, with a touch of sympathy, "I know—he's lonely, and wants a mate." The old man even went so far as to select a dainty little lady pigeon and place her on the ledge, but alas! Chico resented what he evidently considered an intrusion, retreated to the extreme edge, where he looked askance at his companion, and refused, to be moved by her modest advances. Not a single "coo" would he give, and to his everlasting disgrace finally gently but firmly pushed her off the ledge. It was plain she had no charms for him! After one or two further attempts, which ended in the same way, Paolo gave up and allowed Chico to manage his own courting.
When his gentle, beseeching cooing failed to attract, he resorted to bolder methods, flying about the Square, and lingering longer than was his wont among neighboring nests, until he chanced upon a pigeon that took his fancy.
She was a modest little thing, soft drab in color, and not as strikingly marked as he, but she was popular with the birds about, and Chico had to fight one or two lusty rivals before he won her for himself.
The children watched it all with fascinated interest, and when one morning they found her by his side on the ledge outside his nest, they were fairly beside themselves with delight.
All day long they perched together, billing and cooing to their hearts' content, "the prettiest sight in Venice," as all agreed who saw them.
"Coo-oo," he would begin, and she would answer softly. Then they would join in "Coo-oos coo-oo-oo. Ruk-at-a-coo, coo-oo."
Sometimes he would playfully ruffle her feathers, and she would respond by turning to him so coquettishly that they would touch their bills together, so the hours would as they billed and cooed in their love-making.
It was Maria who named the dainty little mate, calling her Pepita, from the first time she saw her by Chico's side. But it was Paolo who declared he could give a pretty good guess as to what they were saying to each other in their soft pigeon language.
"Well, what is it?" Andrea asked incredulously.
"She wants him to help her fix up the old nest," he asserted in a tone of confidence that greatly impressed his audience; "like the rest of the women-folks, she isn't satisfied with it as it is, I don't know as I blame her—it's a pretty poor excuse for a home, even if Chico did manage to make it do while he was a bachelor."
The children's faith in the old man increased tenfold when, the very next day, they discovered Pepita returning from a short flight with a few coarse straws in her beak, while in another moment Chico came flying around the corner of the church with half a dozen more.
"You were right!" Andrea exclaimed, as he made an effort to restrain his boisterous delight, and quietly looked in at the busy pair; "they are working as hard as ever they can this very minute."
After that there were more straws brought, besides other things evidently intended for lining, and though their home, when done, was not as smooth or fine a piece of workmanship as many other birds can boast of, at least it was comfortable, and exactly according to their ideas.
Chico had always loved his nest, but, with the appearance of two eggs under Pepita's breast, he found it difficult to leave, even on necessary flights. He was a devoted husband and was content to perch by her side the whole day long, softly cooing in his efforts to entertain her, and always ready to relieve her in keeping the eggs warm when she wished to take a turn around the Square for exercise or in search of food.
To the children the nest was a place of mystery, and the first thing in the morning they would together climb up to the old box and whisper:
"Buon giorno, Chico; buon giorno, Pepita; how are the eggs to-day?"
And then the mystery deepened! It was Paolo who whispered the wonderful news in their ears.
"How do you know the eggs have hatched?" Andrea queried somewhat doubtfully.
In reply the old man pointed to the pavement where some broken shells were a mute witness of the miracle that had occurred.
They were wild with ecstasy, and could scarcely wait to see the little fledglings, and the second morning after the old caretaker let them come into the shed and, by the light of a flickering candle, showed them the naked little bodies, just as he had shown them Chico, months before.
Pepita had, from the first, accepted the children as her friends (probably Chico had told her all about them in the early days of their courtship), but she couldn't help showing her anxiety on this occasion, and flew distractedly back and forth, while Chico kept jealous watch perched on Andrea's shoulder.
He was a good father, never failing in loving attention to his family, and bringing the choicest tidbits to Pepita.
He hovered anxiously about while she fed the greedy fledglings with the soft pulpy mass she prepared so carefully, and was always ready to look after the "bambini," as Maria insisted on calling the baby birds.
Altogether, Chico was so taken up with his new cares that his training was badly interrupted, and Andrea, especially, became greatly worried lest he should forget all he had learned.
"He'll be all out of practice," he mourned, "and the next time we try him he'll forget and lose his way home."
But Paolo was reassuring. "Never you fear," he replied; "I have heard that the most important messages are entrusted to birds that have young in the nest. That is when the love of home is strongest."
And so it proved: when Chico was once more tried, he surprised them by the swiftness of his flight. In fact, in some instances he actually made more than thirty miles an hour.
The spring advanced: there were other eggs in the nest, and other broods to be cared for, and always Chico remained the faithful husband and father—tender to his fledgling offspring—loving and true to his little wife.
And, whenever household cares permitted, the two could be seen on the window ledge, billing and cooing:
"Coo-oo, coo-oo-oo, Ruk-at-a-coo."
At last the new Campanile was completed. When the historic old bell tower had fallen that morning in July, the people had been stunned and had given way to such grief as only Italians feel over the loss of a thing of beauty.
It had fallen at nine-thirty in the morning, and when the Town Council met that evening, it had been at once decided that immediate steps be taken to erect a new tower, "dov'era, com'era" (where it was and as it was). And in this all Italy concurred. The first stone had been laid on St. Mark's day, April 25, 1903.
Slowly the graceful tower had risen from the confused mass of debris at its base, no effort being spared to make it as strong and beautiful as possible to conceive. Three thousand piles had been used in the foundation, and almost every fragment of the old had been utilized in the effort to reproduce, as nearly as possible, the much-loved structure. Carefully the shattered pieces of bas-reliefs had been fitted together by trained artisans, the figure of Venice on the east walls had been completely restored, while one favorite group of the Madonna and Child had been pieced from sixteen hundred fragments: the bells had been recast, and when this gala day dawned, the same gold angel surmounted the top of the new Campanile that had looked protectingly over the city for generations.
What wonder that Venice was beside herself with joy, and that great festivities had been arranged to celebrate the occasion—on St, Mark's day, 1912?
The city was filled with visitors; the little steamers and motor-boats chugged right merrily along the canals, laden with sight-seers, while the gondoliers reaped a rich, harvest from the crowds of strangers.
Among those who came to attend the festivities was the children's uncle, Pietro Minetti. He was the elder brother of Giovanni, and was an important personage (at least in his own estimation) for had he not left the little Venetian home years before and become a citizen of the world? Andrea and Maria were wild with delight when they heard he was coming, and speculated much as to their rich uncle, for, of course, he must be rich as every one was out in the great world.
And at first sight it seemed that he must be even richer than they had dreamed, so elegant did he appear in his checked trousers and starched shirt. His mustache was waxed, and he walked with a swagger as he jauntily swung a cane.
All at once the little home on the side canal seemed poorer and shabbier than ever, and Luisa couldn't help wishing the smells of fish and garlic from the shop below were not quite so strong.
But though Pietro looked somewhat superciliously at the plain surroundings, after the strangeness wore off he proved to be a most entertaining guest, with his stories of the great cities which he had visited. He had been as far as London, and the children drew close in order that they might not lose a single syllable of his wonderful tales.
"Well, well!" he exclaimed, introducing the subject of the Campanile, "it really seems as if the town is waking up! I hear there is a lift in the tower, and the old angel on the top has been actually placed on a pivot, to act as a weather vane as well as a thing of beauty. That's more than could have been expected of slow Venetians. If it were only possible to get in a few automobiles there might be some hope for the city."
"Automobiles!" Giovanni was indignant, resenting even the mention of such newfangled contrivances. "Venice wouldn't be Venice with automobiles!"
"Well, motor-cycles, then!" laughed Pietro good naturedly; "anything that would give some noise and ginger to the old town. Pep is what Venice needs!" And he chuckled to himself at the thought of motor-cycles on St. Mark's Square.
Neither Giovanni nor Luisa had any patience with such talk, but the children edged nearer, and their eyes grew bigger as they asked him eager questions in regard to the marvelous things he had mentioned.
"Have you ever seen horses?" Andrea ventured timidly; "I mean real horses, not pretend ones like those on the top of St. Mark's?"
"Horses!" he repeated, bursting into so loud a laugh that Maria shrank away, half frightened; "horses! Why, they're so old-fashioned that no one cares for them any more. They're quite too slow for the twentieth century!"
Andrea's head swam—horses old-fashioned! What kind of a strange world was it outside of Venice? All at once his childish air castles came tumbling down. But before he could question further it was time for bed, and with his imagination roused to the utmost he tossed uneasily until he fell asleep to dream he was racing with the wind in a strange kind of car with the Devil himself as driver.
The exercises were to begin at ten o'clock the next morning, and the Piazza was fairly packed with people hours before that time. Thanks to Paolo our little group had a good place to view the proceedings in a certain musty alcove of St. Mark's, and there they sat cramped through what seemed to Maria like interminable hours.
As for St. Mark's Square, even Pietro had only words of praise for its gala appearance: from the three flagstaffs opposite the church fluttered the colors of Italy. Everywhere was music, everywhere was gayety, and the crowds of people united in glad cries of "Viva Venezia!" [Footnote: Long live Venice!]
For Venice, more than any other place in the world, belongs to rich and poor alike, and in the midst of it all, sympathizing with every mood, is St. Mark's Church, the pride of the Venetian people. Never did she seem more glorious than on this gala day, never did her gold mosaics sparkle more brilliantly in the sunshine than when the great high magistrate pronounced the solemn words: "Dov'era, com'era," and the bells rang to mark the completion of the exercises.
Then, hark! a whirr, whirr of wings, a sudden darkening of the sky that caused the joyful thousands to look into the heavens above them.
In an instant the shadow resolved itself into over twenty-five hundred pigeons that had been brought to Venice that they might carry the glad news to every part of Italy.
Then it was that the populace went wild with joy; thousands of handkerchiefs fluttered, the cries of "Viva Venezia!" swelled and rent the air, until they were drowned by the inspiring notes of the Italian national tune, played by patriotic musicians in the bandstand at Florian's.
Our little group shared in all the excitement, waving with the rest and joining in glad cries of "Urra! Urra!" Even Pietro was aroused to admiration, and as the music died away and the crowds began to disperse, he exclaimed: "There's no doubt but that Venice has outdone herself, and it was a master stroke to make such use of homing pigeons. These spoiled birds that flutter about the Square have no spirit in them, and I doubt if one of them could carry a message even from the Lido!"
"Chico could," asserted Andrea stoutly, touched to the quick by the sweeping declaration; "he could carry a message from 'most anywhere to Venice!"
"Who's Chico?" Pietro asked quickly, elbowing his way through the surging mass of people in the church.
"He's my pigeon!" Andrea answered, eager to defend his bird, and raising his voice in an effort to make himself heard above the confusion. "I've trained him, and I'll show you to-morrow! I don't suppose I could get to him in all this crowd."
"To-morrow will do as well," Pietro managed to ejaculate, as they found themselves at last in the Square, which was still solidly jammed with people. "I am somewhat of a pigeon-fancier myself, and if that bird of yours is what you say he is we'll see, we'll see!"
With this their conversation was interrupted and not again resumed, the remainder of the afternoon being spent in promenading the Square, going up in the lift of the Campanile, and managing to appease their appetites with the various pastes and fruits which Pietro generously stood treat for.
Almost before they were aware of it, the afternoon was drawing to a close, and with the coming of twilight Venice became more of a fairyland than ever.
Outlining the buildings throughout the Square, throwing into prominence every graceful point and cornice, were thousands of electric lights: St. Mark's herself appeared more like a jewel box than ever, and was only surpassed by the Campanile which was ablaze from top to bottom.
Everywhere was music, everywhere was light, and in this new and splendid setting, Venice looked a very gorgeous "Bride of the Sea!"
The spirit of the old Carnival days was once more present: as women in black shawls and strange masked figures threaded their way amid the throngs of people accompanied by wild music, while confetti, thrown from every balcony, caused shouts of laughter and fell harmlessly upon them.
There were to be fireworks on the water, and Paolo had offered his old gondola that they might join the gay crowds on the Grand Canal. Here Pietro was supreme, and it required only the twisting of a scarf about his waist to transform him into a gondolier, at least in the eyes of his not too critical audience.
So Giovanni and the children crowded into the shabby gondola and rowed with thousands of others up and down, watching the rockets soaring into the sky and bursting into myriads of dazzling stars as they fell into the water below.
Later, when the display was over, Pietro guided them among the storied palaces of the long ago, now close behind some concert barge, playing softest strains of grand opera, or answering the low call of passing gondoliers with like musical response.
The morning after the great Carnival day Andrea woke with a sense of disquietude. Something was going to happen, but for a few moments he could not think what it was. Then with a rush he remembered. He had promised to show Chico to his uncle. Since the suggestion had been made he had not been able to dismiss it from his mind and, even while watching the bursting rockets the evening before, he had found himself wondering what Pietro could have meant by his mysterious remark, "If the bird is what you say—we shall see. We shall see!"
Although he liked his uncle immensely, he had not been able entirely to overcome a certain feeling of awe in his presence, and he shuddered at thought of many scathing criticisms he had heard him make upon objects which he had been brought up to regard with veneration. Suppose he should make fun of Chico! The quick tears started at the thought. Then his eyes flashed and he sprang out of bed, exclaiming to himself, "I don't care what he may say, I know he's the finest pigeon in the world!"
This feeling of confidence lasted until they finished breakfast and Pietro had pushed back his chair, with the remark:
"And now, my boy, we must be off to see that wonderful bird of yours!"
Then his timidity returned, and beset by anxious fears, he walked silently by his uncle's side.
Pietro was in his most jocund mood that morning, jauntily swinging his cane, joking about the Rialto as they crossed it, and talking a great deal about London and Paris. His companion's courage gradually oozed away. In fact it was completely gone by the time they rounded the corner of the church and came upon the happy couple basking in the sunlight and cooing affectionately to each other.
"So that's the fellow!"—and Pietro pointed to Chico, entirely ignoring little Pepita by his side.
Andrea nodded, not daring to trust himself to speak.
"Hum-mm." His uncle cleared his throat. "Suppose you call him that I may see him closer."
Andrea managed a faint "Chico," and in an instant the pigeon was in his lap, burrowing in his pocket in search of the usual tidbits.
"Hum-mm." Pietro caught the bird firmly in one hand, at the same time swiftly running the other over the trembling body.
"Long wings, bulge prominent over the ear, broad breast, a clear, keen eye—"
Andrea's heart almost ceased to beat.
Then, very slowly, Pietro went on appraisingly. "Very good, very good, indeed! And you say he has had some training?"
"Oh, yes!" the boy answered, and with glowing face, vastly relieved, "he has carried messages from ever so far, from the Lido, from Chioggia—"
"Have you kept his record?" Pietro interrupted brusquely.
At this the boy fished in one pocket after another, finally producing a grimy card, covered with figures.
His uncle took it and, after studying it over carefully, handed it back, saying:
"This is somewhat remarkable, and should be marked on his wings." With that he produced a tiny bottle of India ink a rubber stamp, and while Andrea, with fascinated interest, held the bird, Pietro copied the figures on the primary feathers of the right wing, remarking as he finished, "There, I guess that will attract attention from any fancier. You have really a fine bird, my boy, and I would suggest that it might be well to exhibit him at some pigeon show. There's to be one at Verona next week."
Andrea's head swam. What was his uncle saying? Go to Verona? Exhibit Chico? Impossible! Well he knew there was no money in the little home to pay for any such expenditure, but Pietro was not yet through.
"Your father and mother have treated me right royally ever I've been in Venice, and I am sure they will not deny me this opportunity to make some return. It will not cost you a single lira. What say you, will you accompany me? I happen to be going in that direction and can arrange to stop over as well as not."
Andrea caught his uncle's hands in a paroxysm of joy. In his wildest dreams he had never thought of ever going anywhere outside of Venice, and now, to be thus calmly discussing an errand like this, it seemed as if he could scarcely believe his ears.
Then Pietro, taking for granted that the matter was settled as far as Andrea was concerned, that very evening broached the plan to the boy's father and mother, overruling all their objections with the result that the following Monday found the two travelers, with Chico in his basket, on the train bound for Verona.
It is an interesting trip for any one through the plain towns of northern Italy, and, needless to state, not the slightest detail of the passing landscape was lost on Andrea. Not once did he take his eyes from the car window save occasionally to look through the cracks of the basket into Chico's bright eyes, as if to assure himself that the bird was still there.
On, on they sped, catching glimpses of gnarled olive trees, silvery gray, while Roman walls, centuries old, silhouetted against the horizon, spoke of a civilization long past. There were rounded hill-slopes and ancient castles, while the broad Adige dashed madly along the sides of the track.
It was two o'clock when they reached their destination and rumbled into the huge covered station of Verona.
With beating heart, Andrea followed the business-like Pietro as he led the way out of the station and hailed a vettura [Footnote: Carriage.] to take them up the wide tree-shaded avenue.
The boy paid little attention to the marble palaces by which they drove, but was overwhelmed at the experience of actually being behind a horse. He drew a deep breath—it was a dream come true; he was further amazed at finding their conveyance but one of an endless throng of wagons, carriages, and tram-cars.
In many ways Verona is fully as old-fashioned as Venice, but to Andrea the city seemed the personification of all that was progressive, and while the horses were not the gay steeds of the boy's dream, they were really alive, and wonder of wonders, as they drove over the grand arches of the historic structure which bridges the muddy, swirling waters of the Adige, they were suddenly outdistanced by what Pietro pointed out as one of the few automobiles of Verona.
The boy's eyes widened. What tales he would have to tell old Paolo and the little Maria! When they came to the great Arena, in the heart of the city, Pietro dismissed their vettura, and together they walked down the principal promenade to the shopping center where they mingled with the endless crowds of pedestrians and looked into the windows of the gay little shops that made Andrea think of Venice.
Not far from the imposing City Hall was an ancient red marble Gothic cross about which were clustered hundreds of what looked like canvas toadstools, but which were, in reality, immense white umbrellas, sheltering countless market stalls. Here were gathered a motley collection of all sorts of things for sale, ranging from boots and shoes to many kinds of provisions and fruits.
Through all this Pietro walked so fast that his companion had hard work to keep up with him, and was glad when they finally stopped in front of an enclosure sheltered by two large umbrellas. Then his heart sank and he clutched his basket closer as he realized that here was where the pigeon show would be held, and understood, from what a loud-voiced man was calling, that the birds were already being entered. He wished—oh, how he wished—he had not come, and was almost overwhelmed by the thought that he would be obliged to leave Chico with these chattering strangers.
There was no alternative—already many of the birds were in place. He could see some of them and realized they were, for the most part, dejected looking specimens. He touched Pietro's sleeve nervously and inquired faintly, "Are you sure I shall get him back?"
But on this point his uncle was most reassuring and replied confidently:
"There's nothing at all to worry about. The bird will be perfectly safe. They'll fasten an aluminum tag about his leg with his number on it and give you the duplicate. A claim check, you know. Come, buck up and be a sport!"
Still doubtful, Andrea sorrowfully relinquished his pet. From that time on, his peace of mind was gone, and he mournfully studied the bit of aluminum with the number—1104.
Pietro noticed the lad's dejection and exerted himself to the utmost to divert him. After a good dinner he proceeded to show him the sights of Verona, at the same time telling him interesting tales about the Arena, the beautiful gardens, and the palaces of olden time. But Andrea remained listless, only rousing when his proposed a visit to the tomb of Romeo and Juliet which was the one place his mother had charged him to see.
The show was to open the next morning at ten o'clock, and long before that time there was an eager crowd at the turnstile.
All was in order—the birds of the various exhibits being arranged in cages in different compartments. There were of every color variety, from big fellows, brought 'way from London, to all white beauties. One corner was devoted to the homing pigeons, and here Andrea discovered Chico in the same cage with some highly trained racers from Belgium. His head had lost its saucy tilt, and he was miserably pecking in the sawdust as if in search of something to eat. But otherwise he seemed in good condition, and his master felt a glow of pride as he mentally contrasted the appearance of "1104" with those exhibited by the foreign fanciers, although, of course, he supposed that, in all probability, Chico didn't have a ghost of a chance.
All this time his uncle was excitedly bobbing back and forth, mingling with the people and commenting on the points of one or another specimen. It was a good-natured crowd, that had, for the most part, drifted in from the poultry show that was being held in an adjoining tent. There was not much enthusiasm until four judges made their appearance, and with notebooks in hand, began their inspection of the cages. Then there was a stir; the bystanders pressed more closely to the railing, and there was considerable excitement as fluttering blue and white ribbons indicated the winners of first and second honors.
By the time the cage of messenger pigeons was reached, there was a ripple of genuine excitement, and from one and another quarter bids were shouted by those who knew the characteristics of a good homer. These began as low as "Four lire" on a pigeon from Milan, "A hundred lire" on number "670," an aggressive-looking Belgian, and then—Andrea's head swam as a burly American called out, "fifty dollars on '1104.'"
After that things became lively as the judges passed from one to another, inspecting every bird most carefully and making note of individual characteristics. When they seemed especially pleased, or stopped to confer, as occasionally happened, over the record which, in every case, was marked on the wings, then the bidding became fairly furious, "670" leading and "1104" a close second. One of the judges took so long in his examination of Chico that a fat German changed his bid, and an American called out, "Come, get a move on you!" There was a long conference among the judges, during which the people waited impatiently enough, and Andrea felt himself more tense every moment.
Finally, with exasperating deliberateness, one of them turned and announced that the blue rosette was awarded to number "1104." Andrea's cheeks went scarlet, and the air was rent by cries of "Urra! Urra!" "Bully for 1104!"
The boy's head swam. CHICO HAD WON. It seemed as if he could scarcely believe his senses. He looked around for his uncle only to find he had leaped the railing and was shaking hands with the judges, and pointing to Andrea as the owner of the bird. On every side could be heard excited comments, and the American, just behind, was holding forth at a great rate:
"I knew it—I knew it all the time; he doesn't make the show some of 'em do, but look at his breast! Look at the length of his wings, and his eye! There isn't a bird here with such a keen eye as he has! Then, did you watch him? He wasn't half as scared as the other birds! Just kind of bored by the performance! One can see he has a strong heart, and that's what counts in a homer! Why, bless me, I'd like to get hold of that bird. Is the owner anywhere around?"
It was then Pietro reappeared, jubilant, of course. He wrung the boy's hand until it ached, at the time exclaiming, "You're wanted on every side; you can take your pick of chances to sell your bird, and if you ever wish to engage as a trainer of pigeons, the way is open to you!"
When Andrea presented his metal tag for "1104," the crowd fairly closed in upon him, shouting offers. Altogether it was a great triumph, but he felt tired, and his head ached so that it was a distinct relief when Pietro, looking at his watch, declared there wasn't a moment to lose if he intended to catch the noon train for Venice!
He was glad it was over, and all the way down the tree-lined avenue, he kept looking through the cracks of the basket, as if to assure himself that Chico was really there.
But at the station another ordeal confronted him. Pietro had insisted when they were first discussing coming to Verona that Chico must fly home, and to this Andrea, at the time, had consented. Now he wished he had not. He felt it almost an impossibility again to relinquish his bird, and pleaded with Pietro to release him from his promise. But, no, his uncle was obdurate, and was moved by no entreaties.
"Of what are you afraid? A bird which has the blue rosette can find his way from Verona. He must carry the news of his victory himself, and I miss my guess, if he doesn't reach home before you do."
"But it looks most terribly like a storm," the boy expostulated, his eyes resting uneasily on the angry clouds looming over the castled hills.
"And what if it does rain? A homing pigeon has a stout heart and I warrant it will take more than a thunder-storm to dismay our prize bird." And with that he fastened to Chico's leg a little aluminum pouch, in which was a bit of paper, containing the laconic message, "WON—THE BLUE ROSETTE!"
Andrea made no further protest, and away flew the bird, circling into the air above, then, by still wider circles, higher and higher until he was finally off.
Andrea watched until the mere speck in the distance had completely disappeared. Venice seemed very far away! With a sinking heart he made his way across the platform, and climbed into the little train from the window of which he forlornly waved "good-bye" to the irrepressible Pietro, who, after shouting a final injunction to the lad to "buck-up," and to be sure and let him know how long Chico took to make the trip by his "air-line," jauntily waved his hand, and the train, moved out.
For fully half an hour Andrea crouched in his seat, altogether dejected, watching the sky illuminated from time to time by flashes of lightning. A man in the seat across the aisle leaned over to inquire the meaning of the blue rosette he wore on his breast, but Andrea shook his head and with blurred eyes looked out at the storm already breaking. Soon the thunder could be heard above the noise of the train, and hailstones as large as marbles rattled against the windows.
Somewhere in all that darkness Chico was flying! The boy's heart grew more and more heavy and was filled with bitterness against his uncle who had been so insistent. Of what use were empty honors if his bird was lost forever?
In the meantime Chico was having his difficulties. For the first time he was too far from Venice to catch even a glimpse of her domes or the new Campanile. He was puzzled.
But somewhere was Venice,somewherehis nest—with Pepita and the fledglings. The thunder rumbled, the lightning flashed, the rain fell. Yet his heart was stout and his courage strong.
Do they call it instinct that so unerringly guides the flight of the homing pigeon? Was it the sea that called? Did the winds convey a message? I know not, but, after that single moment of hesitation, the brave bird plunged into the darkness and made his way to home and loved ones.
At last the long afternoon was over and the slow Italian train pulled into Venice. Andrea sadly picked up his empty basket. As it happened, at the very moment he stepped upon the platform, the clouds parted and the sun shone, lighting with splendor the rippling waters of the Adriatic, and shining full on the golden domes of the churches.
He expected Paolo and his sister would be at the station to welcome him and to hear the result of the pigeon show. After all, what had it all amounted to if the bird had been lost in the storm? At that point in his reflections a little figure came rushing to him, all breathless with excitement. It was Maria, with her father and mother just behind. They were followed by the old caretaker, hurrying as fast as his rheumaticky limbs would permit, and, wonder of wonders! Andrea had to look twice to be sure he was not mistaken, perched upon his shoulder was—CHICO! To be sure, his feathers were a little disheveled, for he had been too busy with Pepita and the fledglings to take time to preen them, but apparently he was unharmed by the perils through which he had passed, and there was as saucy a tilt to his as ever.
"Urra! Urra!" the boy cried, throwing his cap twice into the air, while his father wrung his hand excitedly, and Maria exclaimed:
"He came into the nest more than an hour and a half ago. Oh, isn't he the grande bird?"
"He's the fast express all right!" put in Paolo, waving his cane proudly in the air; "made the whole distance at the rate of over forty miles an hour."
Then they all talked at once, asking questions, first about the pigeon show, and then about the adventures in Verona.
It seemed as if Andrea couldn't answer fast enough, there was so much to tell, and he repeated more than once as he passed the blue rosette for their closer inspection:
"There wasn't a bird to compare with him!"
"And you say you rode behind a horse?" Paolo questioned, as the entire party crowded into the old gondola, and Chico flew into his master's lap.
"Si! Si! And saw an automobile!" was the proud answer as Andrea went on to describe how it "went like the wind," just like the one he had dreamed of.
Unconsciously there crept into his demeanor a slight suggestion of Pietro's swagger, and while he was glad to get home, and though St. Mark's Square never seemed so beautiful before, still there was no denying it was a great experience to have traveled and seen something of the world.
Some years passed and Andrea was now a stocky lad with resolute walk and steady black eyes. He was fourteen, the age to which he had long looked forward as the time when he should realize his ambition to work beside his father in the glass factory. Maria, too, was growing up: already her fingers were almost as deft as her mother's in making lace, under whose guidance she could even fashion the beautiful roses, the special characteristic of Venetian point.
As for Chico, he was constantly establishing new records, and his wings bore witness to many triumphs.
Then the Great War came, and the world shook with its thunders. On May 23, 1915, Italy had declared hostilities against Austria-Hungary, although the Italian offensive did not begin until 1917.
At first the victories were all on the side of Italy, when her brave heroes broke through on the Isonzo front, it seemed almost as if they were destined to sweep everything before them Then the tide turned: one town after another was retaken by the Austrians, until, on October 29, 1917, the entire Italian front on the Isonzo collapsed.
Then came days of black despair: all Italy mourned, but in Venice especially was the horror felt. From her situation she had always been a bulwark against the Austrians, and not yet had she forgotten the hated rule of her enemies.
Nearer drew the lines until the roar of the cannon could be sometimes heard, and there was scarcely a clear night that aeroplanes did not hover over the terrified city. Dimmed were the lights that were wont to make a fairyland of St. Mark's Square, and in the daytime the red, white, and green of the Italian flag supplied almost the only color, while the only music was the martial call of Garibaldi, to which countless marched to the field of battle.
"To arms!Haste! Haste! ye martial youth!On every wind our banners fly,Rise all with arms, all with fire!"
The glass factories were closed, and Giovanni went, with the rest of the brave men, to fight for home and country. Even Pietro hastened from his wanderings to offer his services. The lace factories were deserted, and instead of the delicate threads and the bobbins, the women busied themselves with bandages for the Red Cross.
No longer did the canals echo the laughter of gay tourists, and desolately the pigeons flew about St. Mark's Square, which was almost a deserted place save for the workmen to whom had been assigned the task of protecting the church by placing sandbags on the roofs and iron girders at the windows: mournfully lapped the waters of the Adriatic.
The bronze horses were transferred to Rome for safety; even the pictures by the great masters were taken from their places and hidden, lest they fall into the hands of the enemy.
Old Paolo, who, for a year past had been decrepit, died, broken-hearted, when the first news came of Austrian victories. He was sadly missed in his accustomed haunts. A younger man succeeded him as caretaker of St. Mark's, and Andrea, not old enough to be drafted for service at the front, was appointed chief guard of the church by night.
Sacrifice was the watchword of the hour. Men gave up the savings of years, women brought their trinkets to be sold or melted down for the use of the Government.
And Andrea—what had he to give?
One night, as he paced back and forth on his beat, listening for the possible roar of an aeroplane or the sudden bursting of a bomb, there flashed into his mind the story of services rendered Venice in the olden time by homing pigeons. He seemed a child again, sitting close to old Paolo's side and listening to his tales of happenings in the long ago.
True, now there was wireless at the front, besides telephones and telegraphs, and yet, even with all modern inventions, he wondered if the War Department might not be able to find some use for a trusty pigeon.
Though the boy's heart grew faint at the thought of the sacrifice, his resolution was immediately taken, and as soon as he was released from duty in the morning he made his way directly round the church to the bird's nest. He was tall now and had no need of the box Paolo had placed so long ago for use as a step: thrusting his hand through the aperture, he firmly grasped Chico who happened at that time to be taking his turn with the eggs while his mate enjoyed a much-needed constitutional.
Naturally he resented the interruption and made futile efforts to free himself. But Andrea was resolved on no delay, and without more ado bore off the struggling bird, just as Pepita fluttered into the aperture, with an apology for being late, and ready to assume her wifely duties.
"Chico! Chico!" the boy exclaimed, gently smoothing the rumpled feathers, "you mustn't mind, old fellow. I'm sorry to take you away, but you and I have a duty to our country and we mustn't shirk!"
Gradually the pigeon ceased to struggle, and while not in the least understanding what it was all about, snuggled close to Andrea's breast, putting his head confidingly inside his soldier's coat.
"And, Chico," the boy went on, "you must do your part, no matter what happens. And, if you"—he choked a little at the thought—"and if you should never come back, it will be for Venice, and for Italy. We won't forget that, will we, my bird?"
As he spoke, he bent his head to listen caught a faint answering "coo," asChico snuggled his head closer.
By this time he had reached the War Office which was located in one of the buildings on the north side of the Square. In response to his knock he was ushered into the presence of a kindly official who sat at a table littered with maps and papers of every description.
There was a moment's pause, during which Andrea stood uneasily fidgeting, and his courage almost oozed away as he nervously twisted his cap.
But at last the great man looked up, and somewhat abstractly asked, "Well, my boy, what can I do for you?"
"Please, signore," Andrea faltered, as he took from his coat the precious bird, "please, I have a homing pigeon—"
At once the officer became alert. "A homing pigeon?" he repeated quickly."Is he trained to carry messages?"
"Si, signore." And the boy forgot his embarrassment in his anxiety to tell of Chico's exploits. "He won the blue rosette at a pigeon show at Verona, a few years since, and see, here is the record of his flights." With that he spread out the wings and the officer studied them over thoughtfully.
When at last he spoke, Andrea could not but note the light in the tense eyes and the eagerness of his tone:
"My boy, this well-trained homing pigeon will, indeed, be valuable to the War Department. Tell me, what shall I give you for your bird? Name your price!"
"My Chico is not for sale!" the boy protested stoutly, "It is my wish to give his services to my country!"
"Think carefully, the Department is ready to pay well for this branch of air-line service."
But Andrea shook his head, "No, signore, it is for Italy. There is but one thing I would make sure of." He paused.
"And what is that?" the great official inquired kindly. He was beginning to realize that this was no ordinary relation which existed between the lad and his pigeon.
"Please, I would ask that when the war is ended, I may have my bird again; that is, that is—" and the boy's eyes were misty as he spoke.
"To be sure, to be sure," the officer cleared his throat. "I'll see that you have a written voucher to that effect."
He touched a bell and gave the order in a business-like tone to the respectful soldier who at once made his appearance.
"We have a valuable addition to our air messengers in the shape of this well-trained homing pigeon. Have you room for him in the next consignment that is sent to the front?"
"Si, signore, one will go to-morrow. The baskets have four compartments and there is one place still vacant." With that he fixed the metal anklet, and Chico was thereby enrolled as number 7788 in the air brigade of the Italian army.
But that was not all; a voucher was then and there made out that, after hostilities had ceased, number 7788 should be returned to the owner, Andrea Minetti.
The great official affixed his own signature and, after handing the paper to the lad, escorted him to the door and opened it for him.
Though Andrea's heart was well-nigh bursting with grief, the parting words brought a thrill to his whole being:
"It is such sacrifices that will win the war for Italy and, believe me, this act of yours will not be forgotten!"