een long pauses, that would have made another think life to be
heaving its last, not beginning.

The Piazza d'Armi was empty of its glittering show.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE NIGHT OF THE FIFTEENTH

We quit the Piazza d'Armi. Rumour had its home in Milan. On their way to
the caffe La Scala, Luciano and Carlo (who held together, determined to
be taken together if the arrest should come) heard it said that the Chief
was in Milan. A man passed by and uttered it, going. They stopped a
second man, who was known to them, and he confirmed the rumour. Glad as
sunlight once more, they hurried to Count Medole forgivingly. The count's
servant assured them that his master had left the city for Monza. 'Is
Medole a coward?' cried Luciano, almost in the servant's hearing. The
fleeing of so important a man looked vile, now that they were sharpened
by new eagerness. Forthwith they were off to Agostino, believing that he
would know the truth. They found him in bed. 'Well, and what?' said
Agostino, replying to their laughter. 'I am old; too old to stride across
a day and night, like you giants of youth. I take my rest when I can, for
I must have it.'

'But, you know, O conscript father,' said Carlo, willing to fall a little
into his mood, 'you know that nothing will be done to-night.'

'Do I know so much?' Agostino murmured at full length.

'Do you know that the Chief is in the city?' said Luciano.

'A man who is lying in bed knows this,' returned Agostino, 'that he knows
less than those who are up, though what he does know he perhaps digests
better. 'Tis you who are the fountains, my boys, while I am the pool into
which you play. Say on.'

They spoke of the rumour. He smiled at it. They saw at once that the
rumour was false, for the Chief trusted Agostino.

'Proceed to Barto, the mole,' he said, 'Barto the miner; he is the father
of daylight in the city: of the daylight of knowledge, you understand,
for which men must dig deep. Proceed to him;--if you can find him.'

But Carlo brought flame into Agostino's eyes.

'The accursed beast! he has pinned the black butterfly to the signorina's
dress.'

Agostino rose on his elbow. He gazed at them. 'We are followers of a
blind mole,' he uttered with an inner voices while still gazing
wrathfully, and then burst out in grief, '"Patria o mea creatrix, patria
o mea genetrix!"'

'The signorina takes none of his warnings, nor do we. She escaped a plot
last night, and to-night she sings