But this is to look forward: these were the days not of Victor
Emanuel but of Charles Albert; and it was on Charles Albert that
mother and son had now fixed their eyes as on the sword-bearer of
Italy. On Fleeming's sixteenth birthday, they were, the mother
writes, 'in great anxiety for news from the army. You can have no
idea what it is to live in a country where such a struggle is going
on. The interest is one that absorbs all others. We eat, drink,
and sleep to the noise of drums and musketry. You would enjoy and
almost admire Fleeming's enthusiasm and earnestness - and, courage,
I may say - for we are among the small minority of English who side
with the Italians. The other day, at dinner at the Consul's, boy
as he is, and in spite of my admonitions, Fleeming defended the
Italian cause, and so well that he "tripped up the heels of his
adversary" simply from being well-informed on the subject and
honest. He is as true as steel, and for no one will he bend right
or left. . . . . Do not fancy him a Bobadil,' she adds, 'he is
only a very true, candid boy.
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