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membering their brother of France, went about with an
uneasy crick in their necks; and perhaps that passion for
liberty which passed through Europe, sweeping before it
what of absolutism and tyranny had reared its head dur-
ing the reaction from the revolution of 1789, filled no breast
with a hotter fire. One might fancy him, passionate with
theories of human equality and human rights, discuss-
ing, arguing, fighting behind barricades in Paris, flying
before the Austrian cavalry in Milan, imprisoned here, ex-
iled from there, hoping on and upborne ever with the word
which seemed so magical, the word Liberty; till at last, bro-
ken with disease and starvation, old, without means to keep
body and soul together but such lessons as he could pick
up from poor students, he found himself in that little neat
town under the heel of a personal tyranny greater than any
in Europe. Perhaps his taciturnity hid a contempt for the
human race which had abandoned the great dreams of his
youth and now wallowed in sluggish ease; or perhaps these
thirty years of revolution had taught him that men are unfit
for liberty, and he thought that he had spent his life in the
pursuit of that which was not worth the finding. Or maybe
he was tired out and waited only with indifference for the
release of death.
One day Philip, with the bluntness of his age, asked him
if it was true he had been with Garibaldi. The old man did
not seem to attach any importance to the question. He an-
swered quite quietly in as low a voice as usual.
‘Oui, monsieur.’
‘They say you were in the Commune?’

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