o,"
said Agostino.

Corte was less gentle. As a Milanese and a mere youth Ammiani was
antipathetic to Corte, who closed his laughter with a windy rattle of his
lips, and a "pish!" of some emphasis.

Carlo was quick to give him a challenging frown.

"What is it?" Corte bent his head back, as if inquiringly.

"It's I who claim that question by right," said Carlo.

"You are a boy."

"I have studied war."

"In books."

"With brains, Colonel Corte."

"War is a matter of blows, my little lad."

"Let me inform you, signor Colonel, that war is not a game between bulls,
to be played with the horns of the head."

"You are prepared to instruct me?" The fiery Bergamasc lifted his
eyebrows.

"Nay, nay!" said Agostino. "Between us two first;" and he grasped Carlo's
arm, saying in an underbreath, "Your last retort was too long-winded. In
these conflicts you must be quick, sharp as a rifle-crack that hits echo
on the breast-bone and makes her cry out. I correct a student in the art
of war." Then aloud: "My opera, young man!--well, it's my libretto, and
you know we writers always say 'my opera' when we have put the pegs for
the voice; you are certainly aware that we do. How dare you to make
calumnious observations upon my opera? Is it not the ripe and admirable
fruit of five years of confinement? Are not the lines sharp, the stanzas
solid? and the stuff, is it not good? Is not the subject simple, pure
from offence to sensitive authority, constitutionally harmless? Reply!"

"It's transparent to any but asses," said Carlo.

"But if it has passed the censorship? You are guilty, my boy, of
bestowing upon those highly disciplined gentlemen who govern your famous
city--what title? I trust a prophetic one, since that it comes from an
animal whose custom is to turn its back before it delivers a blow, and
is, they remark, fonder of encountering dead lions than live ones. Still,
it is you who are indiscreet,--eminently so, I must add, if you will look
lofty. If my opera has passed the censorship! eh, what have you to say?"

Carlo endured this banter till the end of it came.

"And you--you encourage her!" he cried wrathfully. "You know what the
danger is for her, if they once lay hands on her. They will have her in
Verona in four-and-twenty hours; through the gates of the Adige in a
couple of days, and at Spielberg, or some other of their infernal dens of
groans, within a week. Where is the chance of a rescue then? They
tortur