An outburst of shouts interrupted him; thousands of hats rose in the air; four gentlemen dressed in black got into the first carriage.
“’Tis he!” cried Coretti, and stood as though enchanted.
Then he said softly, “Madonna mia, how gray he has grown!”
We all three uncovered our heads; the carriage advanced slowly through the crowd, who shouted and waved their hats. I looked at the elder Coretti. He seemed to me another man; he seemed to have become taller, graver, rather pale, and fastened bolt upright against the pillar.
The carriage arrived in front of us, a pace distant from the pillar. “Hurrah!” shouted many voices.
“Hurrah!” shouted Coretti, after the others.
The King glanced at his face, and his eye dwelt for a moment on his three medals.
Then Coretti lost his head, and roared, “The fourth battalion of the forty-ninth!”
The King, who had turned away, turned towards us again, and looking Coretti straight in the eye, reached his hand out of the carriage.
Coretti gave one leap forwards and clasped it. The carriage passed on; the crowd broke in and separated us; we lost sight of the elder Coretti. But it was only for a moment. We found him again directly, panting, with wet eyes, calling for his son by name, and holding his hand on high. His son flew towards him, and he said, “Here, little one, while my hand is still warm!” and he passed his hand over the boy’s face, saying, “This is a caress from the King.”