paper. They meant that the enemy was ready to
bite, and that the conspiracy had ceased to be active. He perceived that
a stripped ivy-twig, with the leaves scattered around it, stretched at
his feet. That was another and corroborative sign, clearer to him than
printed capitals. The reading of it declared that the Revolt had
collapsed. He wound and unwound his handkerchief about his fingers
mechanically: great curses were in his throat. 'I would start for South
America at dawn, but for her!' he said. The country of Bolivar still had
its attractions for Italian youth. For a certain space Ammiani's soul was
black with passion. He was the son of that fiery Paolo Ammiani who had
cast his glove at Eugene's feet, and bade the viceroy deliver it to his
French master. (The General was preparing to break his sword on his knee
when Eugene rushed up to him and kissed him.) Carlo was of this blood.
Englishmen will hardly forgive him for having tears in his eyes, but
Italians follow the Greek classical prescription for the emotions, while
we take example by the Roman. There is no sneer due from us. He sobbed.
It seemed that a country was lost.

Ammiani had moved away slowly: he was accidentally the witness of a
curious scene. There came into the irregular triangle, and walking up to
where the fruitstalls stood by day, a woman and a man. The man was an
Austrian soldier. It was an Italian woman by his side. The sight of the
couple was just then like an incestuous horror to Ammiani. She led the
soldier straight up to the Mouth, directing his hand to it, and, what was
far more wonderful, directing it so that he drew forth a packet of papers
from where Ammiani had found none. Ammiani could see the light of them in
his hand. The Austrian snatched an embrace and ran. Ammiani was moving
over to her to seize and denounce the traitress, when he beheld another
figure like an apparition by her side; but this one was not a whitecoat.
Had it risen from the earth? It was earthy, for a cloud of dust was about
it, and the woman gave a stifled scream. 'Barto! Barto!' she cried,
pressing upon her eyelids. A strong husky laugh came from him. He tapped
her shoulder heartily, and his 'Ha! ha!' rang in the night air.

'You never trust me,' she whimpered from shaken nerves.

He called her, 'Brave little woman! rare girl!'

'But you never trust me!'

'Do I not lay traps to praise you?'

'You make a woman try to deceive you.' If she could! If only she c