on that he would
not have escaped from them. Barto Rizzo made her conduct him to Countess
Ammiani's gates.

Violetta was frightened by his eyes when she tried to persuade him in her
best coaxing manner to avoid Count Ammiani. In fact she apprehended that
he would be very much in her way. She had no time for chagrin at her loss
of power over him, though she was sensible of vexation. Barto folded his
arms and sat with his head in his chest, silent, till they reached the'
gates, when he said in French, "Madame, I am a nameless person in your
train. Gabble!" he added, when the countess advised him not to enter; nor
would he allow her to precede him by more than one step. Violetta sent up
her name. The man had shaken her nerves. "At least, remember that your
appearance should be decent," she said, catching sight of blood on his
hands, and torn garments. "I expect, madame," he replied, "I shall not
have time to wash before I am laid out. My time is short. I want tobacco.
The washing can be done by-and-by, but not the smoking."

They were ushered up to the reception-room, where Countess Ammiani,
Vittoria, and Carlo sat, awaiting the visitor whose unexpected name, cast
in their midst at so troubled a season, had clothed her with some of the
midnight's terrors.

CHAPTER XLIII

THE LAST MEETING IN MILAN

Barto Rizzo had silence about him without having to ask for it, when he
followed Violetta into Countess Ammiani's saloon of reception. Carlo was
leaning over his mother's chair, holding Vittoria's wrist across it, and
so enclosing her, while both young faces were raised to the bowed
forehead of the countess. They stood up. Violetta broke through the
formal superlatives of an Italian greeting. "Speak to me alone," she
murmured for Carlo's ear and glancing at Barto: "Here is a madman; a mild
one, I trust." She contrived to show that she was not responsible for his
intrusion. Countess Ammiani gathered Vittoria in her arms; Carlo stepped
a pace before them. Terror was on the venerable lady's face, wrath on her
son's. As he fronted Barto, he motioned a finger to the curtain hangings,
and Violetta, quick at reading signs, found his bare sword there. "But
you will not want it," she remarked, handing the hilt to him, and softly
eyeing the impression of her warm touch on the steel as it passed.

"Carlo, thou son of Paolo! Countess Marcellina, wife of a true patriot!
stand aside, both of you. It is between the Countess Alessand