CHAPTER XXIX
EPISODES OF THE REVOLT AND THE WAR--THE TOBACCO-RIOTS--RINALDOGUIDASCARPI
Anna von Lenkenstein was one who could wait for vengeance. Lena punishedon the spot, and punished herself most. She broke off her engagementwith Wilfrid, while at the same time she caused a secret message to beconveyed to him, telling him that the prolongation of his residence inMeran would restore him to his position in the army.
Wilfrid remained at Meran till the last days of December.
It was winter in Milan, turning to the new year--the year of flamesfor continental Europe. A young man with a military stride, but outof uniform, had stepped from a travelling carriage and entered acigar-shop. Upon calling for cigars, he was surprised to observe thewoman who was serving there keep her arms under her apron. She cast alook into the street, where a crowd of boys and one or two lean men hadgathered about the door. After some delay, she entreated her customer tolet her pluck his cloak halfway over the counter; at the same time shethrust a cigar-box under that concealment, together with a printed songin the Milanese dialect. He lifted the paper to read it, and found ittough as Russ. She translated some of the more salient couplets. Tobaccohad become a dead business, she said, now that the popular edict hadgone forth against 'smoking gold into the pockets of the Tedeschi.' Nonesmoked except officers and Englishmen.
"I am an Englishman," he said.
"And not an officer?" she asked; but he gave no answer. "Englishmen arerare in winter, and don't like being mobbed," said the woman.
Nodding to her urgent petition, he deferred the lighting of his cigar.The vetturino requested him to jump up quickly, and a howl of "Nosmoking in Milan--fuori!--down with tobacco-smokers!" beset thecarriage. He tossed half-a-dozen cigars on the pavement derisively. Theywere scrambled for, as when a pack of wolves are diverted by a garmentdropped from the flying sledge, but the unluckier hands came after hisheels in fuller howl. He noticed the singular appearance of the streets.Bands of the scum of the population hung at various points: from timeto time a shout was raised at a distance, "Abasso il zigarro!" and "Awaywith the cigar!" went an organized file-firing of cries along the openplace. Several gentlemen were mobbed, and compelled to fling the cigarsfrom their teeth. He saw the polizta in twos and threes taking counseland shrugging, evidently too anxious to avoid a collision. Austriansoldiers and subalterns alone smoked freely; they puffed the harderwhen the yells and hootings and whistlings thickened at their heels.Sometimes they walked on at their own pace; or, when the noise swelledto a crisis, turned and stood fast, making an exhibition of curlingsmoke, as a mute form of contempt. Then commenced hustlings and atremendous uproar; sabres were drawn, the whitecoats planted themselvesback to back. Milan was clearly in a condition of raging disease. Thesoldiery not only accepted the challenge of the mob, but assumed theoffensive. Here and there they were seen crossing the street to puffobnoxiously in the faces of people. Numerous subalterns were abroad,lively for strife, and bright with the signal of their readiness. An icywind blew down from the Alps, whitening the housetops and the ways, butevery street, torso, and piazza was dense with loungers, as on asummer evening; the clamour of a skirmish anywhere attracted streams ofdisciplined rioters on all sides; it was the holiday of rascals.
Our traveller had ordered his vetturino to drive slowly to his hotel,that he might take the features of this novel scene. He soon showedhis view of the case by putting an unlighted cigar in his mouth. Thevetturino noted that his conveyance acted as a kindling-match to awakencries in quiet quarters, looked round, and grinned savagely at the sightof the cigar.
"Drop it, or I drop you," he said; and hearing the command to drive on,pulled up short.
They were in a narrow way leading to the Piazza de' Mercanti. While thealtercation was going on between them, a great push of men emerged fromone of the close courts some dozen paces ahead of the horse, bearingforth a single young officer in their midst.
"Signore, would you like to be the froth of a boiling of that sort?" Thevetturino seized the image at once to strike home his instance of thedanger of outraging the will of the people.
Our traveller immediately unlocked a case that lay on the seat in frontof him, and drew out a steel scabbard, from which he plucked the sword,and straightway leaped to the ground. The officer's cigar had beendashed from his mouth: he stood at bay, sword in hand, meeting a rushwith a desperate stroke. The assistance of a second sword got him clearof the fray. Both hastened forward as the crush melted with the hiss ofa withdrawing wave. They interchanged exclamations: "Is it you, Jenna!"
"In the devil's name, Pierson, have you come to keep your appointment inmid-winter?"
"Come on: I'll stick beside you."
"On, then!"
They glanced behind them, heeding little the tail of ruffians whom theyhad silenced.
"We shall have plenty of fighting soon, so we'll smoke a cordial cigartogether," said Lieutenant Jenna, and at once struck a light and blazeddefiance to Milan afresh--an example that was necessarily followed byhis comrade. "What has happened to you, Pierson? Of course, I knew youwere ready for our bit of play--though you'll hear what I said of you.How the deuce could you think of running off with that opera girl, andgetting a fellow in the mountains to stab our merry old Weisspriess,just because you fancied he was going to slip a word or so over the backof his hand in Countess Lena's ear? No wonder she's shy of you now."
"So, that's the tale afloat," said Wilfrid. "Come to my hotel and dinewith me. I suppose that cur has driven my luggage there."
Jenna informed him that officers had to muster in barracks everyevening.
"Come and see your old comrades; they'll like you better in badluck--there's the comfort of it: hang the human nature! She's a goodold brute, if you don't drive her hard. Our regiment left Verona inNovember. There we had tolerable cookery; come and take the best we cangive you."
But this invitation Wilfrid had to decline.
"Why?" said Jenna.
He replied: "I've stuck at Meran three months. I did it, in obedience towhat I understood from Colonel Zofel to be the General's orders. When Iwas as perfectly dry as a baked Egyptian, I determined to believe that Iwas not only in disgrace, but dismissed the service. I posted to Botzenand Riva, on to Milan; and here I am. The least I can do is to showmyself here."
"Very well, then, come and show yourself at our table," said Jenna."Listen: we'll make a furious row after supper, and get hauled in by thecollar before the General. You can swear you have never been absent fromduty: swear the General never gave you forcible furlough. I'll swearit; all our fellows will swear it. The General will say, 'Oh! a verybig lie's equal to a truth; big brother to a fact, or something; as healways does, you know. Face it out. We can't spare a good stout sword inthese times. On with me, my Pierson."
"I would," said Wilfrid, doubtfully.
A douse of water from a window extinguished their cigars.
Lieutenant Jenna wiped his face deliberately, and lighting anothercigar, remarked--"This is the fifth poor devil who has come to anuntimely end within an hour. It is brisk work. Now, I'll swear I'llsmoke this one out."
The cigar was scattered in sparks from his lips by a hat skilfullyflung. He picked it up miry and cleaned it, observing that his honourwas pledged to this fellow. The hat he trampled into a muddy lump.Wilfrid found it impossible to ape his coolness. He swung about for anadversary. Jenna pulled him on.
"A salute from a window," he said. "We can't storm the houses. Thetime'll come for it--and then, you cats!"
Wilfrid inquired how long this state of things had been going on. Jennareplied that they appeared to be in the middle of it;--nearly a week.Another week, and their day would arrive; and then!
"Have you heard anything of a Count Ammiani here?" said Wilfrid.
"Oh! he's one of the lot, I believe. We have him fast, as we'll havethe bundle of them. Keep eye on those dogs behind us, and manoeuvre yourcigar. The plan is, to give half-a-dozen bright puffs, and then keep itin your fi
st; and when you see an Italian head, volcano him like fury.Yes, I've heard of that Ammiani. The scoundrels, made an attempt to gethim out of prison--I fancy he's in the city prison--last Friday night.I don't know exactly where he is; but it's pretty fair reckoning to saythat he'll enjoy a large slice of the next year in the charming solitudeof Spielberg, if Milan is restless. Is he a friend of yours?"
"Not by any means," said Wilfrid.
"Mio prigione!" Jenna mouthed with ineffable contemptuousness; "he'llhave time to write his memoirs, as, one of the dogs did. I remember mymother crying over, the book. I read it? Not I! I never read books. Myfather said--the stout old colonel--'Prison seems to make these Italianstake an interest in themselves.' 'Oh!' says my mother, 'why can't theybe at peace with us?' 'That's exactly the question,' says my father,'we're always putting to them.' And so I say. Why can't they let ussmoke our cigars in peace?"
Jenna finished by assaulting a herd of faces with smoke.
"Pig of a German!" was shouted; and "Porco, porco," was sung in a scaleof voices. Jenna received a blinding slap across the eyes. He staggeredback; Wilfrid slashed his sword in defence of him. He struck a man down."Blood! blood!" cried the gathering mob, and gave space, but hedged thecouple thickly. Windows were thrown up; forth came a rain of householdprojectiles. The cry of "Blood! blood!" was repeated by numbers pouringon them from the issues to right and left. It is a terrible cry in acity. In a city of the South it rouses the wild beast in men to madness.Jenna smoked triumphantly and blew great clouds, with an eye aloftfor the stools, basins, chairs, and water descending. They were inthe middle of one of the close streets of old Milan. The man felled byWilfrid was raised on strong arms, that his bleeding head might be seenof all, and a dreadful hum went round. A fire of missiles, stones, ballsof wax, lumps of dirt, sticks of broken chairs, began to play. Wilfridhad a sudden gleam of the face of his Verona assailant. He and Jennacalled "Follow me," in one breath, and drove forward with sword-points,which they dashed at the foremost; by dint of swift semicirclings ofthe edges they got through, but a mighty voice of command thundered;the rearward portion of the mob swung rapidly to the front, presentinga scattered second barrier; Jenna tripped on a fallen body, lost hiscigar, and swore that he must find it. A dagger struck his sword-arm.He staggered and flourished his blade in the air, calling "On!" withoutstirring. "This infernal cigar!" he said; and to the mob, "What mongrelof you took my cigar?" Stones thumped on his breast; the barrier-lineahead grew denser. "I'll go at them first; you're bleeding," saidWilfrid. They were refreshed by the sound of German cheering, as inapproach. Jenna uplifted a crow of the regimental hurrah of the charge;it was answered; on they went and got through the second fence, sawtheir comrades, and were running to meet them, when a weighted ball hitWilfrid on the back of the head. He fell, as he believed, on a cushionof down, and saw thousands of saints dancing with lamps along cathedralaisles.
The next time he opened his eyes he fancied he had dropped into thevaults of the cathedral. His sensation of sinking was so vivid that hefeared lest he should be going still further below. There was a lampin the chamber, and a young man sat reading by the light of the lamp.Vision danced fantastically on Wilfrid's brain. He saw that he rockedas in a ship, yet there was no noise of the sea; nothing save the remotethunder haunting empty ears at strain for sound. He looked again; theyoung man was gone, the lamp was flickering. Then he became conscious ofa strong ray on his eyelids; he beheld his enemy gazing down on him andswooned. It was with joy, that when his wits returned, he found himselflooking on the young man by the lamp. "That other face was a dream,"he thought, and studied the aspect of the young man with the unweariedattentiveness of partial stupor, that can note accurately, but cannotdeduce from its noting, and is inveterate in patience because it isunideaed. Memory wakened first.
"Guidascarpi!" he said to himself.
The name was uttered half aloud. The young man started and closed hisbook.
"You know me?" he asked.
"You are Guidascarpi?"
"I am."
"Guidascarpi, I think I helped to save your life in Meran."
The young man stooped over him. "You speak of my brother Angelo. I amRinaldo. My debt to you is the same, if you have served him."
"Is he safe?"
"He is in Lugano."
"The signorina Vittoria?"
"In Turin."
"Where am I?"
The reply came from another mouth than Rinaldo's.
"You are in the poor lodging of the shoemaker, whose shoes, if you hadthought fit to wear them, would have conducted you anywhere but to thisplace."
"Who are you?" Wilfrid moaned.
"You ask who I am. I am the Eye of Italy. I am the Cat who sees inthe dark." Barto Rizzo raised the lamp and stood at his feet. "Lookstraight. You know me, I think."
Wilfrid sighed, "Yes, I know you; do your worst."
His head throbbed with the hearing of a heavy laugh, as if a hammer hadknocked it. What ensued he knew not; he was left to his rest. He laythere many days and nights, that were marked by no change of light; thelamp burned unwearyingly. Rinaldo and a woman tended him. The sign ofhis reviving strength was shown by a complaint he launched at the earthysmell of the place.
"It is like death," said Rinaldo, coming to his side. "I am used to it,and familiar with death too," he added in a musical undertone.
"Are you also a prisoner here?" Wilfrid questioned him.
"I am."
"The brute does not kill, then?"
"No; he saves. I owe my life to him. He has rescued yours."
"Mine?" said Wilfrid.
"You would have been torn to pieces in the streets but for Barto Rizzo."
The streets were the world above to Wilfrid; he was eager to hear of thedoings in them. Rinaldo told him that the tobacco-war raged still;the soldiery had recently received orders to smoke abroad, andstreet battles were hourly occurring. "They call this government!" heinterjected.
He was a soft-voiced youth; slim and tall and dark, like Angelo, butwith a more studious forehead. The book he was constantly reading wasa book of chemistry. He entertained Wilfrid with very strange talk. Hespoke of the stars and of a destiny. He cited certain minor eventsof his life to show the ground of his present belief in there being awritten destiny for each individual man. "Angelo and I know it well. Itwas revealed to us when we were boys. It has been certified to us up tothis moment. Mark what I tell you," he pursued in a devout sincerity ofmanner that baffled remonstrance, "my days end with this new year. Hisend with the year following. Our house is dead."
Wilfrid pressed his hand. "Have you not been too long underground?"
"That is the conviction I am coming to. But when I go out to breathe theair of heaven, I go to my fate. Should I hesitate? We Italians of thisperiod are children of thunder and live the life of a flash. The wormsmay creep on: the men must die. Out of us springs a better world.Romara, Ammiani, Mercadesco, Montesini, Rufo, Cardi, whether they see itor not, will sweep forward to it. To some of them, one additional day ofbreath is precious. Not so for Angelo and me. We are unbeloved. We haveneither mother nor sister, nor betrothed. What is an existence that canfly to no human arms? I have been too long underground, because, while Icontinue to hide, I am as a drawn sword between two lovers."
The previous mention of Ammiani's name, together with the knowledge hehad of Ammiani's relationship to the Guidascarpi, pointed an instantidentification of these lovers to Wilfrid.
He asked feverishly who they were, and looked his best simplicity, asone who was always interested by stories of lovers.
The voice of Barto Rizzo, singing "Vittoria!" stopped Rinaldo's reply:but Wilfrid read it in his smile at that word. He was too weak torestrain his anguish, and flung on the couch and sobbed. Rinaldosupposed that he was in fear of Barto, and encouraged him to meet theman confidently. A lusty "Viva l'Italia! Vittoria!" heralded Barto'sentrance. "My boy! my noblest! we have beaten them the cravens! Tell menow--have I served an apprenticeship to the
devil for nothing? We havestruck the cigars out of their mouths and the monopoly-money out oftheir pockets. They have surrendered. The Imperial order prohibitssoldiers from smoking in the streets of Milan, and so throughoutLombardy! Soon we will have the prisons empty, by our own order. Troubleyourself no more about Ammiani. He shall come out to the sound oftrumpets. I hear them! Hither, my Rosellina, my plump melon; up withyour red lips, and buss me a Napoleon salute--ha! ha!"
Barto's wife went into his huge arm, and submissively lifted her face.He kissed her like a barbaric king, laughing as from wine.
Wilfrid smothered his head from his incarnate thunder. He was unnoticedby Barto. Presently a silence told him that he was left to himself. Anidea possessed him that the triumph of the Italians meant the releaseof Ammiani, and his release the loss of Vittoria for ever. Since hergraceless return of his devotion to her in Meran, something like apassion--arising from the sole spring by which he could be excitedto conceive a passion--had filled his heart. He was one of those whodelight to dally with gentleness and faith, as with things that aretheir heritage; but the mere suspicion of coquettry and indifferenceplunged him into a fury of jealous wrathfulness, and tossed sodesireable an image of beauty before him that his mad thirst to embraceit seemed love. By our manner of loving we are known. He thought it nomeanness to escape and cause a warning to be conveyed to the Governmentthat there was another attempt brewing for the rescue of Count Ammiani.Acting forthwith on the hot impulse, he seized the lamp. The door wasunlocked. Luckier than Luigi had been, he found a ladder outside, anda square opening through which he crawled; continuing to ascend alongclose passages and up narrow flights of stairs, that appeared to him tobe fashioned to avoid the rooms of the house. At last he pushed adoor, and found himself in an armoury, among stands of muskets, swords,bayonets, cartouche-boxes, and, most singular of all, though he observedthem last, small brass pieces of cannon, shining with polish. Shot waspiled in pyramids beneath their mouths. He examined the guns admiringly.There were rows of daggers along shelves; some in sheath, others bare;one that had been hastily wiped showed a smear of ropy blood. He stooddebating whether he should seize a sword for his protection. In the actof trying its temper on the floor, the sword-hilt was knocked from hishand, and he felt a coil of arms around him. He was in the imprisoningembrace of Barto Rizzo's wife. His first, and perhaps natural,impression accused her of a violent display of an eccentric passion forhis manly charms; and the tighter she locked him, the more reasonablywas he held to suppose it; but as, while stamping on the floor, sheoffered nothing to his eyes save the yellow poll of her neck, and hungneither panting nor speaking, he became undeceived. His struggles werepreposterous; his lively sense of ridicule speedily stopped them. Heremained passive, from time to time desperately adjuring his livingprison to let him loose, or to conduct him whither he had come; but theinexorable coil kept fast--how long there was no guessing--till he couldhave roared out tears of rage, and that is extremity for an Englishman.Rinaldo arrived in his aid; but the woman still clung to him. He wasfreed only by the voice of Barto Rizzo, who marched him back. Rinaldosubsequently told him that his discovery of the armoury necessitated hisconfinement.
"Necessitates it!" cried Wilfrid. "Is this your Italian gratitude?"
The other answered: "My friend, you risked your fortune for my brother;but this is a case that concerns our country."
He deemed these words to be an unquestionable justification, for he saidno more. After this they ceased to converse.
Each lay down on his strip of couch-matting; rose and ate, and passedthe dreadful untamed hours; nor would Wilfrid ask whether it was day ornight. We belong to time so utterly, that when we get no note of time,it wears the shrouded head of death for us already. Rinaldo could quitthe place as he pleased; he knew the hours; and Wilfrid supposed thatit must be hatred that kept him from voluntarily divulging that blessedpiece of knowledge. He had to encourage a retorting spirit of hatredin order to mask his intense craving. By an assiduous calculation ofseconds and minutes, he was enabled to judge that the lamp burned aspace of six hours before it required replenishing. Barto Rizzo's wifetrimmed it regularly, but the accursed woman came at all seasons. Shebrought their meals irregularly, and she would never open her lips: shewas like a guardian of the tombs. Wilfrid abandoned his dream of thevariation of night and day, and with that the sense of life deadened, asthe lamp did toward the sixth hour. Thenceforward his existence fed onthe movements of his companion, the workings of whose mind he began toread with a marvellous insight. He knew once, long in advance of theact or an indication of it, that Rinaldo was bent on prayer. Rinaldo hadslightly closed his eyelids during the perusal of his book; he had takena pencil and traced lines on it from memory, and dotted points here andthere; he had left the room, and returned to resume his study.Then, after closing the book softly, he had taken up the mark he wasaccustomed to place in the last page of his reading, and tossed it away.Wilfrid was prepared to clap hands when he should see the hated fellowdrop on his knees; but when that sight verified his calculation, hehuddled himself exultingly in his couch-cloth:--it was like a confirmingclamour to him that he was yet wholly alive. He watched the anguish ofthe prayer, and was rewarded for the strain of his faculties by sleep.Barto Rizzo's rough voice awakened him. Barto had evidently justcommunicated dismal tidings to Rinaldo, who left the vault with him,and was absent long enough to make Wilfrid forget his hatred in anirresistible desire to catch him by the arm and look in his face.
"Ah! you have not forsaken me," the greeting leaped out.
"Not now," said Rinaldo.
"Do you think of going?"
"I will speak to you presently, my friend."
"Hound!" cried Wilfrid, and turned his face to the wall.
Until he slept, he heard the rapid travelling of a pen; on hisawakening, the pen vexed him like a chirping cricket that tells us thatcock-crow is long distant when we are moaning for the dawn. Great dropsof sweat were on Rinaldo's forehead. He wrote as one who poured fortha history without pause. Barto's wife came to the lamp and beckoned himout, bearing the lamp away. There was now for the first time darknessin this vault. Wilfrid called Rinaldo by name, and heard nothing butthe fear of the place, which seemed to rise bristling at his voice andshrink from it. He called till dread of his voice held him dumb. "I am,then, a coward," he thought. Nor could he by-and-by repress a start ofterror on hearing Rinaldo speak out of the darkness. With screams forthe lamp, and cries that he was suffering slow murder, he underwent aparoxysm in the effort to conceal his abject horror. Rinaldo sat by hisside patiently. At last, he said: "We are both of us prisoners onequal terms now." That was quieting intelligence to Wilfrid, who askedeagerly: "What hour is it?"
It was eleven of the forenoon. Wilfrid strove to dissociate hisrecollection of clear daylight from the pressure of the hideousfeatureless time surrounding him. He asked: "What week?" It was thefirst week in March. Wilfrid could not keep from sobbing aloud. In theearly period of such a captivity, imagination, deprived of all otherfood, conjures phantasms for the employment of the brain; but there isstill some consciousness within the torpid intellect wakeful to laugh atthem as they fly, though they have held us at their mercy. The face oftime had been imaged like the withering mask of a corpse to him. He hadfelt, nevertheless, that things had gone on as we trust them to do atthe closing of our eyelids: he had preserved a mystical remote faithin the steady running of the world above, and hugged it as his mostprecious treasure. A thunder was rolled in his ears when he heard ofthe flight of two months at one bound. Two big months! He would haveguessed, at farthest, two weeks. "I have been two months in one shirt?Impossible!" he exclaimed. His serious idea (he cherished it for thesupport of his reason) was, that the world above had played a mad pranksince he had been shuffled off its stage.
"It can't be March," he said. "Is there sunlight overhead?"
"It is a true Milanese March," Rinaldo replied.
"Why am I kept a prisoner?"
"I cannot say. There
must be some idea of making use of you."
"Have you arms?"
"I have none."
"You know where they're to be had."
"I know, but I would not take them if I could. They, my friend, are fora better cause."
"A thousand curses on your country!" cried Wilfrid. "Give me air; giveme freedom, I am stifled; I am eaten up with dirt; I am half dead. Arewe never to have the lamp again?"
"Hear me speak," Rinaldo stopped his ravings. "I will tell you whatmy position is. A second attempt has been made to help Count Ammiani'sescape; it has failed. He is detained a prisoner by the Government underthe pretence that he is implicated in the slaying of an Austrian nobleby the hands of two brothers, one of whom slew him justly--not as a dogis slain, but according to every honourable stipulation of the code. Iwas the witness of the deed. It is for me that my cousin, Count Ammiani,droops in prison when he should be with his bride. Let me speak on, Ipray you. I have said that I stand between two lovers. I can releasehim, I know well, by giving myself up to the Government. Unless I do soinstantly, he will be removed from Milan to one of their fortresses inthe interior, and there he may cry to the walls and iron-bars for histrial. They are aware that he is dear to Milan, and these two miserableattempts have furnished them with their excuse. Barto Rizzo bids mewait. I have waited: I can wait no longer. The lamp is withheld from meto stop my writing to my brother, that I may warn him of my design, butthe letter is written; the messenger is on his way to Lugano. I do notstate my intentions before I have taken measures to accomplish them. Iam as much Barto Rizzo's prisoner now as you are."
The plague of darkness and thirst for daylight prevented Wilfrid fromhaving any other sentiment than gladness that a companion equallyunfortunate with himself was here, and equally desirous to go forth.When Barto's wife brought their meal, and the lamp to light them eatingit, Rinaldo handed her pen, ink, pencil, paper, all the materialof correspondence; upon which, as one who had received a stipulatedexchange, she let the lamp remain. While the new and thrice-dear rayswere illumining her dark-coloured solid beauty, I know not what touchof man-like envy or hurt vanity led Wilfrid to observe that the woman'seyes dwelt with a singular fulness and softness on Rinaldo. It wasfulness and softness void of fire, a true ox-eyed gaze, but human in thefall of the eyelids; almost such as an early poet of the brush gave tothe Virgin carrying her Child, to become an everlasting reduplicatedimage of a mother's strong beneficence of love. He called Rinaldo'sattention to it when the woman had gone. Rinaldo understood his meaningat once.
"It will have to be so, I fear," he said; "I have thought of it. But ifI lead her to disobey Barto, there is little hope for the poor soul." Herose up straight, like one who would utter grace for meat. "Must we, Omy God, give a sacrifice at every step?"
With that he resumed his seat stiffly, and bent and murmured to himself.Wilfrid had at one time of his life imagined that he was marked by apeculiar distinction from the common herd; but contact with this youngman taught him to feel his fellowship to the world at large, and torejoice at it, though it partially humbled him.
They had no further visit from Barto Rizzo. The woman tended them inthe same unswerving silence, and at whiles that adorable maternityof aspect. Wilfrid was touched by commiseration for her. He was toobitterly fretful on account of clean linen and the liberty whichfluttered the prospect of it, to think much upon what her fate might be:perhaps a beating, perhaps the knife. But the vileness of wearing oneshirt two months and more had hardened his heart; and though he wasconsiderate enough not to prompt his companion very impatiently,he submitted desperate futile schemes to him, andsuggested--"To-night?--tomorrow?--the next day?" Rinaldo did not heedhim. He lay on his couch like one who bleeds inwardly, thinking of thecomplacent faithfulness of that poor creature's face. Barto Rizzo hadsworn to him that there should be a rising in Milan before the month wasout; but he had lost all confidence in Milanese risings. Ammiani wouldbe removed, if he delayed; and he knew that the moment his letterreached Lugano, Angelo would start for Milan and claim to surrender inhis stead. The woman came, and went forth, and Rinaldo did not look ather until his resolve was firm.
He said to Wilfrid in her presence, "Swear that you will reveal nothingof this house."
Wilfrid spiritedly pronounced his gladdest oath.
"It is dark in the streets," Rinaldo addressed the woman. "Lead us out,for the hour has come when I must go."
She clutched her hands below her bosom to stop its great heaving, andstood as one smitten by the sudden hearing of her sentence. Thesight was pitiful, for her face scarcely changed; the anguish wasexpressionless. Rinaldo pointed sternly to the door.
"Stay," Wilfrid interposed. "That wretch may be in the house, and willkill her."
"She is not thinking of herself," said Rinaldo.
"But, stay," Wilfrid repeated. The woman's way of taking breath shockedand enfeebled him.
Rinaldo threw the door open.
"Must you? must you?" her voice broke.
"Waste no words."
"You have not seen a priest?"
"I go to him."
"You die."
"What is death to me? Be dumb, that I may think well of you till my lastmoment."
"What is death tome? Be dumb!"
She had spoken with her eyes fixed on his couch. It was the figure ofone upon the scaffold, knitting her frame to hold up a strangled heart.
"What is death to me? Be dumb!" she echoed him many times on the riseand fall of her breathing, and turned to get him in her eyes. "Be dumb!be dumb!" She threw her arms wide out, and pressed his temples andkissed him.
The scene was like hot iron to Wilfrid's senses. When he heard hercoolly asking him for his handkerchief to blind him, he had forgottenthe purpose, and gave it mechanically. Nothing was uttered throughoutthe long mountings and descent of stairs. They passed across onecorridor where the walls told of a humming assemblage of men within. Acurrent of keen air was the first salute Wilfrid received from the worldabove; his handkerchief was loosened; he stood foolish as a blind man,weak as a hospital patient, on the steps leading into a small square ofvisible darkness, and heard the door shut behind him. Rinaldo led himfrom the court to the street.
"Farewell," he said. "Get some housing instantly; avoid exposure to theair. I leave you."
Wilfrid spent his tongue in a fruitless and meaningless remonstrance."And you?" he had the grace to ask.
"I go straight to find a priest. Farewell."
So they parted.