The spirit of self-forgetfulness, the simple devotion to a vast
humanitarian idea which inspired the thought and stress of that
revolutionary time, had left its mark upon Giorgio in a sort of austere
contempt for all personal advantage. This man, whom the lowest class in
Sulaco suspected of having a buried hoard in his kitchen, had all his
life despised money. The leaders of his youth had lived poor, had died
poor. It had been a habit of his mind to disregard to-morrow. It was
engendered partly by an existence of excitement, adventure, and wild
warfare. But mostly it was a matter of principle. It did not resemble
the carelessness of a condottiere, it was a puritanism of conduct, born
of stern enthusiasm like the puritanism of religion.

This stern devotion to a cause had cast a gloom upon Giorgio's old
age. It cast a gloom because the cause seemed lost. Too many kings and
emperors flourished yet in the world which God had meant for the people.
He was sad because of his simplicity. Though always ready to help his
countrymen, and greatly respected by the Italian emigrants wherever he
lived (in his exile he called it), he could not conceal from himself
that they cared nothing for the wrongs of down-trodden nations. They
listened to his tales of war readily, but seemed to ask themselves what
he had got out of it after all. There was nothing that they could see.
"We wanted nothing, we suffered for the love of all humanity!" he cried
out furiously sometimes, and the powerful voice, the blazing eyes, the
shaking of the white mane, the brown, sinewy hand pointing upwards as
if to call heaven to witness, impressed his hearers. After the old man
had broken off abruptly with a jerk of the head and a movement of the
arm, meaning clearly, "But what's the good of talking to you?" they
nudged each other. There was in old Giorgio an energy of feeling, a
personal quality of conviction, something they called "terribilita"--"an