o master
hand on the spot to fuse and point the intense distracted forces.

The curtain, therefore, hung like any common opera-screen; big only with
the fate of the new prima donna. He was robbed even of the certainty that
Vittoria would appear. From the blank aspect of the curtain he turned to
the house, which was crowding fast, and was not like listless Milan about
to criticize an untried voice. The commonly empty boxes of the
aristocracy were full of occupants, and for a wonder the white uniforms
were not in excess, though they were to be seen. The first person whom
Ammiani met was Agostino, who spoke gruffly. Vittoria had been invisible
to him. Neither the maestro, nor the impresario, nor the waiting-woman
had heard of her. Uncertainty was behind the curtain, as well as in
front; but in front it was the uncertainty which is tipped with
expectation, hushing the usual noisy chatter, and setting a daylight of
eyes forward. Ammiani spied about the house, and caught sight of Laura
Piaveni with Colonel Corte by her side. The Lenkensteins were in the
Archduke's box. Antonio-Pericles, and the English lady and Captain
Gambier, were next to them. The appearance of a white uniform in his
mother's box over the stage caused Ammiani to shut up his glass. He was
making his way thither for the purpose of commencing the hostilities of
the night, when Countess Ammiani entered the lobby, and took her son's
arm with a grave face and a trembling touch.

CHAPTER XIX

THE PRIMA DONNA

'Whover is in my box is my guest,' said the countess, adding a convulsive
imperative pressure on Carlo's arm, to aid the meaning of her deep
underbreath. She was a woman who rarely exacted obedience, and she was
spontaneously obeyed. No questions could be put, no explanations given in
the crash, and they threaded on amid numerous greetings in a place where
Milanese society had habitually ceased to gather, and found itself now in
assembly with unconcealed sensations of strangeness. A card lay on the
table of the countess's private retiring-room: it bore the name of
General Pierson. She threw off her black lace scarf. 'Angelo Guidascarpi
is in Milan,' she said. 'He has killed one of the Lenkensteins, sword to
sword. He came to me an hour after you left; the sbirri were on his
track; he passed for my son. He is now under the charge of Barto Rizzo,
disguised; probably in this house. His brother is in the city. Keep the
cowl on your head as long as poss