Amongst the order-covered staff who follow, there
is scarcely one of not more royal presence than their leader; there are
many whose names may stand before his in the world's judgment, but the
crowd has its eye fixed on the King, and the King alone. For three days
this selfsame crowd has followed him, and stared at him, and cheered him,
but their ardour remains undiminished. All the school-children of the
city, down to little mites of things who can scarcely toddle, have been
brought out to see him. Boy-soldiers, with Lilliputian muskets, salute
him as he passes. A mob of men, heedless of the gendarmes or of the
horses' hoofs, run before the cavalcade, in the burning heat, and cheer
hoarsely. Every window is lined with ladies in the gayest of gay
dresses, who cast glances before the King, and try, like true daughters
of Eve, to catch a smile from that plain, good-humoured face. So amidst
flowers and smiles and cheers the procession passes on. There is no
pause, indeed, in the ceaseless cheering, save where the band of exiles
stands with the flags of Rome, and Naples, and Venice, covered with the
black veil; or when the regiments defile past with the tattered colours
which were rent to shreds at San Martino and at Solferino, and then the
cry of "Viva Vittorio Emmanuele" is changed for that of "Viva l'Italia!"
It is a Sunday afternoon, and at three o'clock I have turned out of the
broiling streets into the vast, crowded theatre of Reggio.
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