swung their caps on the points of their bayonets, every banner was
shaken out, and a hundred thousand voices burst into one tremendous
shout, 'Viva! Viva! Viva!' At the window of the Vatican something light-
colored appeared, wavered, fluttered in the air. God in heaven!" cried
the boy, with his arms about his mother's neck, "it was the flag of
Italy!"

The delight, the joy, the enthusiasm which greeted his words are
indescribable. The lad had spoken with so much warmth, had been so
carried away by his imagination, that he had not perceived that,
gradually, as the story proceeded, he had passed from fact to fiction;
and his eyes were wet, his voice shook, with the spell of his
hallucination. His words carried conviction, and not a doubt clouded the
happiness of his listeners. They laughed and cried and kissed each
other, feeling themselves suddenly released from all their doubts and
scruples, from all the miserable conflicts of conscience that had
tortured them as Italians and as Catholics! The reconciliation between
Church and State! The dream of so many years! What peace it promised,
what a future of love and harmony! What a sense of freedom and security!

"Thank God, thank God!" the mother cried, sinking into a chair, worn out
by her emotions. And then, in a moment or two, they were all at the lad
again, clamoring for fresh details.

"Is it really true?"

"Haven't you dreamed it?"

"Go on, tell us everything. Tell us about the Pope, about the crowd,
about what happened next"...