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A DOl'BLE SACRIFICE.
Ires so much troubh
"ouud about us as well
as my right hiiinl, ihe r oods, the gorges an ,
start ; but the separation, ns one may well think, was >
ery
piinnil. One would have thought beloved children were
quisling the paternal roof without a hope of returning.
Bettiua. and Marioitu wept bitterly. Luigi was in a very
bad humor, for that was his way of showing his grief.
Fra Paolo, leaning on a stout oak stick, glanced sadly at
Victor.
My child, my d'^ar child," said he, in a low voice,
"
pray
for the old herinir, who'll always pray for you."
The young travellers, at the moment of crossing tho
C tho cross over their bowed heads. Then they
of the hand.
exchanged a last greeting, n, last clasp
'
Farewell, farewell ! Addio, dear children !"
And the young men, crossing the threshold, went away in
the direction of Kome.
CHAPTER XVI.
END OP A FREETHINKER.
The henceforth illustrious names of Castelfldardo and the
Cvucetti had resounded throughout Europe. The glory of the
courageous martyrs of light and justice, ns well as the shameful
triumph of the conquerors, were published everywhere-
Every one heartily admired tho heroic courage of tho volun-
j'S and the prudence of their brave generals, and recognized
crushing numerical superiority of the enemies as well as
the ferocious severity and implacable rancor of the chiefs who
had led them to battle.
And yet, with how many tears and sighs of regret was that
glory accompanied ! There parents were weeping for a son of
whom the murderous bullet had deprived them elsewhere ;
sis-
ters were going into mourning for a brother of whose fate they
were ignorant or perhaps it was a husband or betrothed -who
n on the blood-stained battle-field, or dear friends separated
forever.
But who could paint the constant and painful anxiety of re~
ives and friends without tidings of their dear ones? What
y could not find the names of their children, brothers,
nds in the list. All hope was then lost ; they were dead
i buried
in the inglorious trench drg for them by tho cruel
i '.la of Cialdini's soldiers. How else account for their si-
e?
It was this doubt and uncertainty that for several weeks
wrung (lie hearts of our Schrambeck friends. Since the papers
had conveyed to tueni the deplorable news of the Casteilidardo
v, not even doubtful news of their three volunteers
had reached tlum. Days passed in indescribable anguish
awaiting the moment when the last glimmer of hope would be
extinguished for who knows whether they should ever hear
ie fate of their children?
The three mothers and the sisters, however, bore this great
grief calmly; faith compensated for joy and hope; but the
unhappy father, the proud pliitii!tc, who had nothing to
rest on but his human courage and his cold, austere reason,
could not bear it, and was gradually full ing into R profound
melancholy. While his wile, !
drawing hope and consolation at the foot of
hil! mo, we'll traverse them without risks and
Withou
They could not refuse him this last, favor. Next Jay, at
dawn, tho four companions, dressed as peasants, wore ready to
-
i- before tho humble altar of t ivy to },.
shut up in his chamber, silent, motionless, and
with his head buried in his hands. Although the seas
already advanced, he had nnt v t been able to make up his
mind to leave his country house, ju the first place, lie knew
his wife found some consolation in her sister's company. As
for himself, he had not tho courage to tenr himself away from
ic Mary, who by her simple affection and loving solici-
tude, alone could sometimes dissipate his sombre melancholy.
' Dear uncle, why are you always so sad ? " said she
tionately, trying to conquer her own gr.ef in order to sou; no
his.
" Alas! my poor child, how could I be merry ? We'll never,
never more see our poor unfortunate exih
threshold, knelt at the venerable old man's feet.
" '
Give us your blessing, Father," they said.
Still, uncle,
Fra Paolo raised his eyes and hands to heaven, and made the
all hope is not lost. You know every day
young Zouaves whom one thought dead are writing to their
relatives or returning their families."
" I know it, my good Mary, and that's exactly why I'm de-
spondent. All those who've come back were at first prisoners
of war, and none of then have como across oiir poor friends.
They haven't been seen either at Genoa, Alessandria or any
other prison. Tell me, Mary, tell me what hope remains to us
now ? They have certainly been killed in action, abandoned
on the field of battle."
And the unhappy father stopped abruptly, and vainly strove
to restrain the tears that rushed to his eyes, while, strange, to
say, Mary felt a mysterious peace, a supernatural strength ;
understanding that God had made her the only support and
consolation of this unhappy father, whose heart was closed to
every hope from heaven, and w ho was consequently every instant
on the point of succumbing under the burden of grit f.
"
Still, nobody has seen them fall upon the battle-field, dear
uncle," she resumed.
" Even those of their companions who
fought by their side up to the close of the action say they
didn't lose sight of them until the moment the retreat com-
menced, Favored by the disorder that prevailed in the ranks,
couldn't they have escaped and found some secret hiding-
place?"
"No, no, my poor Mary. How could they get safely p. way
in a country invaded by a victorious army ? Besides, wouldn't
they have written since then to relieve us of any uncertainty as
to their fate ?"
" Who knows? Perhaps they are concealed at Loreto itself
or in the neighborhood, and won't write for fear of making
known their place of retreat to the Piedmontese commanders !"
"Alas [poor child,'' pursued the unhappy father still more
liad become of those for whom so many tears were being shed ?
Were they dead, or severely wounded ? Had they escaped
were they languishing in prison? Alas! who could tell?
JKvery the time the papers published a new list of the
wounded, they were eagerly snatched up. each expecting to Bee
his fears happily dispelled or fatally conSrmed. And for many
those cruel tortures of doubt and uncertainty were prolonged; a firm and pious confidence tells me to believe and to hope, so
sadly, " it is the voice of your love that, despite everything,
cradles you in these consoling illusions. You'd like to make
me share them to calm and sustain me by the shadow of a
hope."
" No, no, my very dear uncle, I'm not deluding myself; but
long as hope is possible and confidence allowable. I am obeying
the voice of faith, pure and potent faith, which tells me of
a mysterious Father in heaven who -watches over all His chil-
dren, and protects them even in the midst of tho greatest dangers,
tho most terrible trials. It is this divine confidence and
faith I wish to communicate to you, my good uncle; not to
cherish vain illusiocs in your heart, bi.t to engender a sweet,
stiong hopefulness in your soul."
"
My good and dear Mary, I heartily admire your resignation
and courage, but I can't share them; for me it is too late! If
the God -whom you adore really exists, and controls and directs
tho actions of men, He can only be to me a severe Judge
a pitiless Executioi; er, and not a kind and loving Father; for I
have outraged and insulted Him; I have denied His existence,
despised His "
power, and defied His wrath.
" ()h ! my dear uncle, don't speak
.so. Banish those melan-
choly thoughts; know better that God love you. He is, with-