tiny smokepuffs, halted, advanced again, rattled files of shots,
became struck into knots, faced half about as from a blow of the back of
a hand, retired orderly. Cavalry curved like a flickering scimetar in
their rear; artillery plodded to its further station. Innumerable tiny
smoke-puffs then preceded a fresh advance of infantry. The enemy were on
the hills and looked mightier, for they were revealed among red flashes
of their guns, and stood partly visible above clouds of hostile smoke and
through clouds of their own, which grasped viscously by the skirts of the
hills. Yet it seemed a strife of insects, until, one by one, soldiers who
had gone into yonder white pit for the bloody kiss of death, and had got
it on their faces, were borne by Vittoria and Laura knelt in this horrid
stream of mortal anguish to give succour from their stores in the
carriage. Their natural emotions were distraught. They welcomed the sight
of suffering thankfully, for the poor blotted faces were so glad at sight
of them. Torture was their key to the reading of the battle. They gazed
on the field no longer, but let the roaring wave of combat wash up to
them what it would.

The hill behind Pastrengo was twice stormed. When the bluecoats first
fell back, a fine charge of Piedmontese horse cleared the slopes for a
second effort, and they went up and on, driving the enemy from hill to
hill. The Adige was crossed by the Austrians under cover of Tyrolese
rifleshots.

Then, with Beppo at their heels, bearing water, wine, and brandy, the
women walked in the paths of carnage, and saw the many faces of death.
Laura whispered strangely, "How light-hearted they look!" The wounded
called their comforters sweet names. Some smoked and some sang, some
groaned; all were quick to drink. Their jokes at the dead were universal.
They twisted their bodies painfully to stick a cigar between dead lips,
and besprinkle them with the last drops of liquor in their cups, laughing
a benediction. These scenes put grievous chains on Vittoria's spirit, but
Laura evidently was not the heavier for them. Glorious Verona shone under
the sunset as their own to come; Peschiera, on the blue lake, was in the
hollow of their hands. "Prizes worth any quantity of blood," said Laura.
Vittoria confessed that she had seen enough of blood, and her aspect
provoked Laura to utter, "For God's sake, think of something
miserable;--cry, if you can!"

Vittoria's underlip dropped sickly with th