The streets were the world above to Wilfrid; he was eager to hear of the doings in them.  Rinaldo told him that the tobacco-war raged still; the soldiery had recently received orders to smoke abroad, and street battles were hourly occurring.  “They call this government!” he interjected.

He was a soft-voiced youth; slim and tall and dark, like Angelo, but with a more studious forehead.  The book he was constantly reading was a book of chemistry.  He entertained Wilfrid with very strange talk.  He spoke of the stars and of a destiny.  He cited certain minor events of his life to show the ground of his present belief in there being a written destiny for each individual man.  “Angelo and I know it well.  It was revealed to us when we were boys.  It has been certified to us up to this moment.  Mark what I tell you,” he pursued in a devout sincerity of manner that baffled remonstrance, “my days end with this new year.  His end with the year following.  Our house is dead.”

Wilfrid pressed his hand.  “Have you not been too long underground?”

“That is the conviction I am coming to.  But when I go out to breathe the air of heaven, I go to my fate.  Should I hesitate?  We Italians of this period are children of thunder and live the life of a flash.  The worms may creep on:  the men must die.  Out of us springs a better world.  Romara, Ammiani, Mercadesco, Montesini, Rufo, Cardi, whether they see it or not, will sweep forward to it.  To some of them, one additional day of breath is precious.  Not so for Angelo and me.  We are unbeloved.  We have neither mother nor sister, nor betrothed.  What is an existence that can fly to no human arms?  I have been too long underground, because, while I continue to hide, I am as a drawn sword between two lovers.”

The previous mention of Ammiani’s name, together with the knowledge he had of Ammiani’s relationship to the Guidascarpi, pointed an instant identification of these lovers to Wilfrid.

He asked feverishly who they were, and looked his best simplicity, as one who was always interested by stories of lovers.

The voice of Barto Rizzo, singing “Vittoria!” stopped Rinaldo’s reply:  but Wilfrid read it in his smile at that word.  He was too weak to restrain his anguish, and flung on the couch and sobbed.  Rinaldo supposed that he was in fear of Barto, and encouraged him to meet the man confidently.  A lusty “Viva l’Italia!  Vittoria!” heralded Barto’s entrance.  “My boy! my noblest! we have beaten them the cravens!  Tell me now—­have I served an apprenticeship to the devil for nothing?  We have struck the cigars out of their mouths and the monopoly-money out of their pockets.  They have surrendered.  The Imperial order prohibits soldiers from smoking in the streets of Milan, and so throughout Lombardy!  Soon we will have the prisons empty, by our own order.  Trouble yourself no more about Ammiani.  He shall come out to the sound of trumpets.  I hear them!  Hither, my Rosellina, my plump melon; up with your red lips, and buss me a Napoleon salute—­ha! ha!”