[Illustration: A LITTLE MOTHER OF THE TYROL
We gave her some candy: it was the first taste of sugar that she had had
in four years]
[Illustration: THE END OF THE DAY
A Tyrolean peasant woman returning from the fields]
"How do you feel," I asked the old man, "about Italian rule?"
"They are not our own people," he answered slowly. "Their language is
not our language and their ways are not our ways. But they are not an
unkind nor an unjust people and I think that they mean to treat us
fairly and well. Austria is very poor, I hear, and could do nothing for
us if she would. But Italy is young and strong and rich and the officers
who have stopped here tell me that she is prepared to do much to help
us. Who knows? Perhaps it is all for the best."
Immediately beyond Madonna di Campiglio the highway begins its descent
from the pass in a series of appallingly sharp turns. Hardly had we
settled ourselves in the tonneau before the Sicilian, impatient to be
gone, stepped on the accelerator and the big Lancia, flinging itself
over the brow of the hill, plunged headlong for the first of these
hairpin turns. "Slow up!" I shouted. "Slow up or you'll have us over the
edge!" As the driver's only response to my command was to grin at us
reassuringly over his shoulder, I looked about for a soft place to land.
But there was only rock-plated highway whizzing past and on the outside
the road dropped sheer away into nothingness.
Pages:
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33