s. 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 gentleness and faith, as with things that are
their heritage; but the mere suspicion of coquettry and indifference
plunged him into a fury of jealous wrathfulness, and tossed so
desireable an image of beauty before him that his mad thirst to embrace
it seemed love. By our manner of loving we are known.