ke-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 the question, "Why?"

Laura stated the physical necessity with Italian naivete.

"If I can," said Vittoria, and blinked to get a tear; but laughter
helped as well to relieve her, and it came on their return to the
carriage. They found the spy Luigi sitting beside the driver. He
in