And so, one night he was out scouting with only his sergeant as company. "His" sergeant was Sergt. Cillario, a veteran of Libya, who had stayed in the army just to be with Antonio Cantore, whom he called "my" general. They had climbed a difficult mule-path toward the Austrian trenches, the general leading, the sergeant following in silence.
At last the general told the sergeant to stop, and he went on alone. When he would not permit a man to risk his life, that man did as he was told. Only on such occasions did Gen. Cantore make his rank felt. He no longer said: "Let us go, my boy," but "Sergeant, stay there." His boys were not saints, but they obeyed. They had to, for otherwise he—raised his voice and smiled no more!
So that night, as on many others, he went on alone. And when his hands touched the first barbed wire the sentries of the Austrian trenches fired at him. This did not disconcert him. He went on with his hands in his pockets, his head on one side, stooping to examine through his spectacles the entanglements by the light of flashes from the enemy's guns. He was ten yards from the Austrian trench, a single dark shadow advancing like fate through the volleys, an invulnerable shadow seeking out the interstices of the barbed wire entanglements to find spaces through which men might pass, scrutinizing them with the calm interest of a botanist examining a garden.
A Tryolean kaiserjaeger, who has been taking careful aim at him, saw the insignia of his rank.
"My God! a General!" he exclaimed, and let his rifle fall.
III—TALES OF GENERAL CANTORE
When the town of Ala was carried by assault last June he was the first to enter it. He went through the hail of bullets with the same calmness as he would have gone through a rainstorm, and as unscathed.
When the Austrians fled a group of about one hundred and fifty took refuge in the Cafe 25 Maggio in the piazza then called Moses, and in the Villa Brazil, almost opposite, determined to resist to the last in order to cover the retreat. Gen. Cantore said the lieutenant in command of the nearest platoon, "Come on." They went to the door of the cafe. "Make them open," he said, "but leave your pistol. They won't fire." But they did, sending a shower of bullets from the windows. Neither of the Italians was hit.
"They won't open," said the lieutenant.
"I'll make them," said Cantore. He approached the door, armed only with his riding whip. Another volley greeted him, and shots from the windows of the Villa Brazil. He was unwounded, but he lost his calm as he cried: