“I would go into battle itself to see ’Rico once more!” the poor woman moaned.
“There will be lots of time yet before the battles begin,” I replied with lying comfort.
“You think so!... War is very terrible for those who have to stay behind.”
III
In obedience to Signora Maironi’s mysterious telegram, I waited outside the railroad station in Venice for the arrival of the night express from Rome, which was very late. The previous day I had taken the precaution to attach to me old Giuseppe, one of the two boatmen now left at the traghetto near my hotel, all the younger men having been called out. There were few forestieri, and Giuseppe was thankful to have a real signore, whom he faithfully protected from the suspicious and hostile glances of the Venetians. Every stranger, I found, had become an Austrian spy! Giuseppe was now busily tidying up his ancient gondola, exchanging jokes with the soldiers in the laden barks which passed along the canal. Occasionally a fast motor-boat threw up a long wave as it dashed by on an errand with some officer in the stern. All Venice, relieved of tourists, was bustling with soldiers and sailors. Gray torpedo-boats lay about the piazzetta, and Red Cross flags waved from empty palaces. Yet there was no war.
“Giuseppe,” I asked, “do you think there will be any war?”
“Sicuro!” the old man replied, straightening himself and pointing significantly with his thumb to a passing bargeful of soldiers. “They are on the way.”
“Where?”
“Who knows?... The mountains,” and he indicated the north with his head. “I have two sons—they have gone.”