It was on such nights as this that the danger from air raids was especially imminent, and the boy's senses were at tight tension.
As the moon rose, Venice stood revealed an enchanted city, a place of beauty, touched as of old with a magic wand. Hark—already the clock was striking the hour of two! Andrea's eyes wandered from one familiar object to another the Ducal Palace, the new Campanile, the column of St. Theodore, and, beyond, the dome of Sta. Maria della Salute. He held his breath, it was so wonderful. And to think—to-night, to-morrow, all might be in ruins. Surely the great God would never permit it!
Only a short time before, on June 15, the enemy had launched a new offensive the Piave River, from the Asiago Plateau to the Adriatic Sea, and though a few days later the news had reached Venice that their own brave men had taken the offensive, nothing had since been heard. Would it be as it had been before, a few spasmodic successes and then—loss and defeat?
Suddenly (was he dreaming?) there was a whirr of wings; he rubbed his sleeve across his eyes. Swiftly there shot across his vision something that in the soft moonbeams seemed an arrow of silver—a flash of light! He was dazed; could it be—Chico? At full speed he ran to the nest, and there, close by the side of cooing Pepita, lay the exhausted bird, while a ray of moonlight closed a stain of blood across his breast.
Quick as a flash the boy reached in his hand, unfastened the little aluminum pouch, and, without waiting to find out whether the pigeon was alive or dead, fairly flew to the War Department where a light was burning, as he knew it would be. In these days of strain the high official scarcely closed his eyes and on this night he was tracing over and over again the plan of the new offensive.
Andrea rapped on the window—he could not wait to knock and be admitted, neither did he dare to leave his watch for even a fraction of a second.
"Who is it?"—the window was cautiously opened.
"It is I, Andrea Minetti, number 7788 has just come in with a message from the front." With that he thrust the metal cylinder into the officer's hand. He tore it open and for one tense moment scanned the bit of tissue paper, then, with tears of joy, he read aloud: "'Austrian offensive declared a failure—Italians make sweeping victories along the Piave: Evviva Venezia! Evviva Italia!'" Then added exultantly, "Buone notizie! good news, good news!" and the tears coursed freely down his furrowed cheek, Andrea, beside himself with joy, threw his cap Into the air, echoing; "Viva Venezia! Evviva Italia! It was my Chico brought the message!"
At mention of the pigeon the officer turned quickly, asking:
"Your bird—tell me, is he alive and in good condition?"