It was a company of ex-service men in uniform; one or two hundred,
carrying rifles with fixed bayonets which gleamed in the sunshine.
There were two fifers and two drummers at their head, and also two
flags, one the flag of the Brigade, and the other the flag of
Mobland. I remembered having noted in the morning papers that the
national commander of the brigade was to arrive in town this
morning, and no doubt this was a delegation to do him honor.
The marchers swept down on us, and past us, and I watched the
prophet. His eyes were wide, his whole face expressing anguish. "Oh
God, my Father!" he whispered, and seemed to quiver with each thud
of the tramping feet on the pavement. After the storm had passed, he
stood motionless, the pain still in his face "It is Rome! It is
Rome!" he murmured.
"No," said I, "it is Mobland."
He went on, as if he had not heard me. "Rome! Eternal Rome! Rome
that never dies!" And he turned upon me his startled eyes. "Even the
eagles!"
For a moment I was puzzled; but then I remembered the golden eagle
with wings outspread, that perches on top of our national banner.
Pages:
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217