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 informed them that Antonio-Pericles had been in the track of the army ever since their flight from Turin; daily hurrying off with whip of horses at the sound of cannon-shot, and gradually stealing back to the extreme rear.  This day he had flown from Oliosi to Cavriani, and was, perhaps, retracing his way already as before, on fearful toe-tips.  Luigi acted the caution of one who stepped blindfolded across hot iron plates.  Vittoria, without a spark of interest, asked why the Signor Antonio should be following the army.

“Why, it’s to find you, signorina.”

Luigi’s comical emphasis conjured up in a jumbled picture the devotion, the fury, the zeal, the terror of Antonio-Pericles—­a mixture of demoniacal energy and ludicrous trepidation.  She imagined his long figure, fantastical as a shadow, off at huge strides, and back, with eyes sliding swiftly to the temples, and his odd serpent’s head raised to peer across the plains and occasionally to exclaim to the reasonable heavens in anger at men and loathing of her.  She laughed ungovernably.  Luigi exclaimed that, albeit in disgrace with the signor Antonio, he had been sent for to serve him afresh, and had now been sent forward to entreat the gracious signorina to grant her sincerest friend and adorer an interview.  She laughed at Pericles, but in truth she almost loved the man for his worship of her Art, and representation of her dear peaceful practice of it.