Andrea recovered and returned to work; he was in the strike of 1875, threw a stone, and underwent a term of imprisonment.
In the year 1877 his native village, Airolo, was destroyed by fire.
“Now I have burnt my boats behind me,” he said, “there is no going back—I must go on.”
The 19th of July 1879 was a day of mourning. The engineer-in-chief had gone into the mountain to measure and to calculate; and, all absorbed in his work, he had had a stroke and died. Died with his race only half run! He ought to have been buried where he fell, in a more gigantic stone pyramid than any of the Egyptian Pharaohs had built for tees, and his name, Favre, should have been carved into the stone.
However, time passed, Andrea gained money, experience, and strength. He never went to Göschenen, but once a year he went to the “sacred wood” to contemplate the devastation, as he said.
He never saw Gertrude, never sent her a letter; there was no need for it, he was always with her is his thoughts, and he felt that her will was his.
In the seventh year the magistrate died, in poverty.
“What a lucky thing that he died a poor man,” thought Andrea; and there are not many sons-in-law who would think like that.
In the eighth year something extraordinary happened; Andrea, foremost man on the Italian side of the tunnel, was hard at work, beating on his jumper. There was scarcely any air; he felt suffocated, and suffered from a disagreeable buzzing in his ears. Suddenly he heard a ticking, which sounded like the ticking of a wood-worm, whom people call “the death-watch.”
“Has my last hour come?” he said, thinking aloud.