unassuming manner. London has not yet forgotten Durando of Marathon
fame. He was just such another easy smiling youth as I now see
everywhere around me. Yet there came a day when a hundred thousand
Londoners hung upon his every movement--when strong men gasped and
women wept at his invincible but unavailing spirit. When he had fallen
senseless in that historic race on the very threshold of his goal, so
high was the determination within him, that while he floundered on the
track like a broken-backed horse, with the senses gone out of him, his
legs still continued to drum upon the cinder path. Then when by pure
will power he staggered to his feet and drove his dazed body across the
line, it was an exhibition of pluck which put the little sunburned
baker straightway among London's heroes. Durando's spirit is alive
to-day, I see thousands of him all around me. A thousand such, led by a
few young gentlemen of the type who occasionally give us object lessons
in how to ride at Olympia, make no mean battalion. It has been a war
of most desperate ventures, but never once has there been a lack of
volunteers. The Tyrolese are good men--too good to be fighting in so
rotten a cause. But from first to last the Alpini have had the
ascendency in the hill fighting, as the line regiments have against the
Kaiserlics upon the plain. Caesar told how the big Germans used to
laugh at his little men until they had been at handgrips with them. The
Austrians could tell the same tale. The spirit in the ranks is
something marvellous. There have been occasions when every officer has
fallen and yet the men have pushed on, have taken a position and then
waited for official directions.

But if that is so, you will ask, why is it that they have not made more
impression upon the enemy's position? The answer lies in the
strategical position of Italy, and it can be discussed without any
technicalities. A child could understand it. The Alps form such a bar