“Certainly I am.”

“Then I shall have to suspect you, for the good of your country.”

Luigi could not see the deduction.  He was incapable of guessing that it might apply forcibly to Vittoria, who had undertaken a grave, perilous, and imminent work.  Nothing but the spontaneous desire to elude the pursuit of a questioner had at first instigated his baffling of Barto Rizzo, until, fearing the dark square man himself, he feared him dimly for Vittoria’s sake; he could not have said why.  She was a good patriot:  wherefore the reason for wishing to know more of her?  Barto Rizzo had compelled him at last to furnish a narrative of the events of that day on the Motterone, and, finding himself at sea, Luigi struck out boldly and swam as well as he could.  Barto disentangled one succinct thread of incidents:  Vittoria had been commissioned by the Chief to sing on the night of the Fifteenth; she had subsequently, without speaking to any of the English party, or revealing her features “keeping them beautifully hidden,” Luigi said, with unaccountable enthusiasm—­written a warning to them that they were to avoid Milan.  The paper on which the warning had been written was found by the English when he was the only Italian on the height, lying thereto observe and note things in the service of Barto Rizzo.  The writing was English, but when one of the English ladies—­“who wore her hair like a planed shred of wood; like a torn vine; like a kite with two tails; like Luxury at the Banquet, ready to tumble over marble shoulders” (an illustration drawn probably from Luigi’s study of some allegorical picture,—­he was at a loss to describe the foreign female head-dress)—­when this lady had read the writing, she exclaimed that it was the hand of “her Emilia!” and soon after she addressed Luigi in English, then in French, then in “barricade Italian” (by which phrase Luigi meant that the Italian words were there, but did not present their proper smooth footing for his understanding), and strove to obtain information from him concerning the signorina, and also concerning the chances that Milan would be an agitated city.  Luigi assured her that Milan was the peacefullest of cities—­a pure babe.  He admitted his acquaintance with the Signorina Vittoria Campa, and denied her being “any longer” the Emilia Alessandra Belloni of the English lady.  The latter had partly retained him in her service, having given him directions to call at her hotel in Milan, and help her to communicate with her old friend.  “I present myself to her to-morrow, Friday,” said Luigi.

“That’s to-day,” said Barto.

Luigi clapped his hand to his cheek, crying wofully, “You’ve drawn, beastly gaoler! a night out of my life like an old jaw-tooth.”

“There’s day two or three fathoms above us,” said Barto; “and hot coffee is coming down.”

“I believe I’ve been stewing in a pot while the moon looked so cool.”  Luigi groaned, and touched up along the sleeves of his arms:  that which he fancied he instantaneously felt.