had seen his family swept away by the executioner and pecuniary penalties.  Thick scars of wounds covered the body and disfigured the face of Giulio Bandinelli.  Agostino had crawled but half-a-year previously out of his Piedmontese cell, and Marco Sana, the Brescian, had in such a place tasted of veritable torture.  But if the calamity of a great oath was upon them, they had now in their faithful prosecution of it the support which it gives.  They were unwearied; they had one object; the mortal anguish they had gone through had left them no sense for regrets.  Life had become the field of an endless engagement to them; and as in battle one sees beloved comrades struck down, and casts but a glance at their prostrate forms, they heard the mention of a name, perchance, and with a word or a sign told what was to be said of a passionate glorious heart at rest, thanks to Austrian or vassal-Sardinian mercy.

So they lay there and discussed their plans.

“From what quarter do you apprehend the surprise?” Ugo Corte glanced up from the maps and papers spread along the grass to question Carlo ironically, while the latter appeared to be keeping rigid watch over the safety of the position.  Carlo puffed the smoke of a cigarette rapidly, and Agostino replied for him:—­

“From the quarter where the best donkeys are to be had.”

It was supposed that Agostino had resumed the habit usually laid aside by him for the discussion of serious matters, and had condescended to father a coarse joke; but his eyes showed no spark of their well-known twinkling solicitation for laughter, and Carlo spoke in answer gravely:—­

“From Baveno it will be.”

“From Baveno!  They might as well think to surprise hawks from Baveno.  Keep watch, dear Ammiani; a good start in a race is a kick from the Gods.”

With that, Corte turned to the point of his finger on the map.  He conceived it possible that Carlo Ammiani, a Milanese, had reason to anticipate the approach of people by whom he, or they, might not wish to be seen.  Had he studied Carlo’s face he would have been reassured.  The brows of the youth were open, and his eyes eager with expectation, that showed the flying forward of the mind, and nothing of knotted distrust or wary watchfulness.  Now and then he would move to the other side of the mountain, and look over upon Orta; or with the opera-glass clasped in one hand beneath an arm, he stopped in his sentinel-march, frowning reflectively at a word put to him, as if debating within upon all the bearings of it; but the only answer that came was a sharp assent, given after the manner of one who dealt conscientiously in definite affirmatives; and again the glass was in requisition.  Marco Sana was a fighting soldier, who stated what he knew, listened, and took his orders.  Giulio Bandinelli was also little better than the lieutenant in an enterprise.  Corte, on the other hand, had the conspirator’s head,—­a head like a walnut, bulging above the ears,—­and the man was of a sallying temper.  He lay there putting bit by bit of his plot before the Chief for his approval, with a careful construction, that upon the expression of any doubt of its working smoothly in the streets of Milan, caused him to shout a defensive, “But Carlo says yes!”