This young fellow was a youth of twenty, still beardless, of a blonde handsomeness such as occasionally flowers at Naples, with long curly hair, a lily-like complexion, a rosy mouth, and soft eyes full of a dreamy languor.

The old man presented him in fatherly fashion, Angiolo Mascara his name was, and he was the grandson of an old comrade in arms, the epic Mascara of the Thousand, who had died like a hero, his body pierced by a hundred wounds.
"I sent for him to scold him," continued Orlando with a smile.

"Do you know that this fine fellow with his girlish airs goes in for the new ideas?
He is an Anarchist, one of the three or four dozen Anarchists that we have in Italy.

He's a good little lad at bottom, he has only his mother left him, and supports her, thanks to the little berth which he holds, but which he'll lose one of these fine days if he is not careful.
Come, come, my child, you must promise me to be reasonable." Thereupon Angiolo, whose clean but well-worn garments bespoke decent poverty, made answer in a grave and musical voice: "I am reasonable, it is the others, all the others who are not.

When all men are reasonable and desire truth and justice, the world will be happy." "Ah! if you fancy that he'll give way!" cried Orlando.