His prime duty is to see that none of his fellow peasants
shall carry home a bucket of sea-water. For there is salt in sea-
water; and heavily, because they must have it or sicken, salt is
taxed; and this passing sentinel is to prevent them from cheating the
Revenue by recourse to the sea which, though here it is, they must not
regard as theirs. What becomes of the tax-money? It goes towards the
building of battleships, cruisers, gunboats and so forth. What are
these for? Why, for Italy to be a Great European Power with, of
course. In the little blue bay behind Umberto, while I write, there
lies at anchor an Italian gunboat. Opportunely again? I can but assure
you that it really and truly is there. It has been there for two days.
It delights the fishermen. They say it is `bella e pulita com' un
fiore.' They stand shading their eyes towards it, smiling and proud,
heirs of all the ages, neglecting their sails and nets and spars of
wood. They can imagine nothing better than it. They see nothing at all
sinister or absurd about it, these simple fellows. And simple Umberto,
their captive, strives to wheel round on his pedestal and to tear but
a peep-hole in his sheeting. He would be glad could he feast but one
eye on this bit of national glory. But he remains helpless--helpless
as a Sultana made ready for the Bosphorus, helpless as a pig is in a
poke.
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