She looked about her as if for inspiration.  She found it in the moving line of men just visible far above in the mountains.

The Austrians!  They were advancing, and the sudden realization of it brought out all her courage and daring, and intensified the hatred in her heart.

“They shall not cross our bridge,” she shouted defiantly, and raced ahead regardless of the rain of shot and shell.

But when she reached the bridge she stopped again, helpless and completely baffled.  The wall rose above her high and impregnable.  A little farther along, the window of the convent seemed to be ablaze with light.  The church had been struck, and Lucia could feel the heat of the flames from where she stood.

The North Gate seemed miles away, and she turned to the convent.  She knew there was a door that gave on to the river bank, and she ran forward.  She found it and pushed frantically against it.  It was locked, the only other opening being a window higher up.

Lucia looked at it in despair.  It was her only chance.  The glass had been smashed by the impact of the bursting shells and lay in broken bits under her feet.  She could just reach the ledge with her hands, and the stone felt warm.  The wall was rough and uneven, and after a struggle she managed to find a foothold and pulled herself up.  The jagged glass still in the casement cut her hands, but she did not stop to think about it.  Once inside she ran along the dark corridor and up the few steps that led to the first floor.  The big iron doors were open, and she caught her first sight of the town.

The convent was just outside, and on the road that led south a great stream of people carrying every size of bundles, was hurrying along.  Lucia recognized some of them, but the faces she most longed to see were not there.

She turned away, for the sight seemed to drain all her courage, and she longed to run after them, but the memory of that moving mass of soldiers made her true to her trust, and she hurried through the convent, calling for aid.

At the farthest door she discovered several of the sisters hurrying about and trying to clear the big ward filled with wounded soldiers.  They had been brought in that morning, and some of them were very ill indeed.  The sisters were carrying them out on improvised stretchers.  Those who were able to stand up staggered along as best they could by themselves.  Lucia saw one boy leaning heavily against the door, and ran to him.

“Roderigo Vicello!” she exclaimed, when she looked up at him.

Roderigo swayed and would have fallen if she had not supported him.

“I can not go,” he said weakly.  “I am too tired, and I want to go.  I have watched her out of sight, but I am too tired to follow.”

Lucia looked at him intently.  It seemed to her impossible that a man, and a soldier, could bother to think of a girl at such a time.  She took his arm firmly and shook him.