The Hound of Florence Read Free Page A

world’s treasures lie out of reach, a man without a calling, sitting with empty hands and staring desperately into vacancy with the one question ringing in his heart—What shall I do? What shall I do? If a definite answer is forthcoming, all anxiety vanishes instantly, the barren hours that before had stretched like a desert to the horizon, are barren no more, but full of duties, plans, hopes and even confidence, and the fingers, itching to set to work on the task that lies ready to hand, forget how idle they have been hitherto. But the thoughts of a despairing man reply with nothing but a medley of ideas, which he cannot disentangle; a hundred and one voices seem to answer, each stammering at first and then suddenly breaking off altogether, till all are silenced, and only the old question remains—
    â€œWhat shall I do?”
    For a long while Lucas sat thus in the attic, the tormenting query ringing in his ears. At last he shook himself, and thrusting his thoughts impatiently from him, took refuge in the last stronghold of those who can see no escape from their distress. He began to dream. One day a rich man would come to him and say: “Would you like to go to Italy to learn some noble craft? Good, my son, here are ten ducats. They will enable you to travel free from care. There is enough there to take you to Florence and even further. Take the money and think no more about it; it is nothing to me. Often I stake ten ducats on a card and lose as much five or ten times over in an evening without feeling it. How many times have I given a girl ten ducats for a smile? Look at the buckle on my shoe; it is worth thirty ducats, and yet I was not put out for a moment when one of them was stolen.”
    Surely, mused Lucas, as he continued to weave daydreams, there must be many good men in the world. Father often used to say there were, and I think he was right. But how strange it is that one should have to go down on one’s knees to good men before they will do anything! If they are good, surely they must know that others are dying of hunger and thirst! And they must know that for a trifle, for the price of a shoebuckle, a man can often be saved. Is it kindness to give alms to the beggar at the church door? Even with the money in his hand, he still remains a beggar. There must be hundreds and hundreds of good men in the world, and if the beggar is to earn his daily bread, many of them must pass by and put a copper in his hand. Yet they do not save him from having to beg! But he would never have become a beggar if he had been helped. Perhaps the most terrible thing on earth is that men do not hold out a helping hand to one another.
    Attracted by the broad expanse of sky which seemed to stretch above it, he walked to the window. It was a small attic window, and to reach it he had to climb up two rough wooden steps. He leaned on the broad sill and gazed happily at the glorious view stretching beneath him far away to the horizon. At his feet he could see the dark foliage of the trees on the bastion; in front of the walls lay the broad green expanse of the glacis, intersected by streets and paths that looked like streaks of chalk. Beyond came the houses, roofs and church-towers of the suburbs, and yet further away, the hills rose gently to the diaphanous mist of the mountains.
    With one swift, all-embracing glance Lucas took in the view. Along the broad highway which crossed the glacis in the direction of the suburbs, a long procession was advancing at a fair pace, looking like some giant caterpillar with arching back crawling along on its myriad feet. At first Lucas watched it quite unmoved, but suddenly he saw that it was the same procession he had met a little while back in the square in front of St. Michael’s Church. He grew wildly excited. Although it was a long way off, he could plainly discern the cuirassiers riding ahead. As the light played about the cavalcade and sudden gleams flashed on bright points