od are children of thunder and live the life of a flash. The worms
may creep on: the men must die. Out of us springs a better world. Romara,
Ammiani, Mercadesco, Montesini, Rufo, Cardi, whether they see it or not,
will sweep forward to it. To some of them, one additional day of breath
is precious. Not so for Angelo and me. We are unbeloved. We have neither
mother nor sister, nor betrothed. What is an existence that can fly to no
human arms? I have been too long underground, because, while I continue
to hide, I am as a drawn sword between two lovers."

The previous mention of Ammiani's name, together with the knowledge he
had of Ammiani's relationship to the Guidascarpi, pointed an instant
identification of these lovers to Wilfrid.

He asked feverishly who they were, and looked his best simplicity, as one
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 to
restrain his anguish, and flung on the couch and sobbed. Rinaldo supposed
that he was in fear of Barto, and encouraged him to meet the man
confidently. A lusty "Viva l'Italia! Vittoria!" heralded Barto's
entrance. "My boy! my noblest! we have beaten them the cravens! Tell me
now--have I served an apprenticeship to the devil for nothing? We have
struck the cigars out of their mouths and the monopoly-money out of their
pockets. They have surrendered. The Imperial order prohibits soldiers
from smoking in the streets of Milan, and so throughout Lombardy! Soon we
will have the prisons empty, by our own order. Trouble yourself no more
about Ammiani. He shall come out to the sound of trumpets. I hear them!
Hither, my Rosellina, my plump melon; up with your 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 unnoticed
by Barto. Presently a silence told him that he was left to himself. An
idea possessed him that the triumph of the Italians meant the release of
Ammiani, and his release the loss of Vittoria for ever. Since her
graceless return of his devotion to her in Meran, something like a
passion--arising from the sole spring by which he could be excited to
conceive a passion--had filled his heart. He was one of those who delight
to dally with gentlene