Pericles howled the name of his place of residence, with an offer of lodgings in it, and was carried off writhing his body as he passed a fine military marching band.

The figure of old Agostino Balderini stood in front of Merthyr.  They exchanged greetings.  At the mention of Rome, Agostino frowned impatiently.  He spoke of Vittoria in two or three short exclamations, and was about to speak of Carlo, but checked his tongue.  “Judge for yourself.  Come, and see, and approve, if you can.  Will you come?  There’s a meeting; there’s to be a resolution.  Question—­Shall we second the King of Sardinia, Piedmont, and Savoy?  If so, let us set this pumpkin, called Milan, on its legs.  I shall be an attentive listener like you, my friend.  I speak no more.”

Merthyr went with him to the house of a carpenter, where in one of the uppermost chambers communicating with the roof, Ugo Corte, Marco Sana, Giulio Bandinelli, and others, sat waiting for the arrival of Carlo Ammiani; when he came Carlo had to bear with the looks of mastiffs for being late.  He shook Merthyr’s hand hurriedly, and as soon as the door was fastened, began to speak.  His first sentence brought a grunt of derision from Ugo Corte.  It declared that there was no hope of a rising in Milan.  Carlo swung round upon the Bergamasc.  “Observe our leader,” Agostino whispered to Merthyr; “it would be kindness to give him a duel.”  More than one tumult of outcries had to be stilled before Merthyr gathered any notion of the designs of the persons present.  Bergamasc sneered at Brescian, and both united in contempt of the Milanese, who, having a burden on their minds, appealed at once to their individual willingness to use the sword in vindication of Milan against its traducers.  By a great effort, Carlo got some self-mastery.  He admitted, colouring horribly, that Brescia and Bergamo were ready, and Milan was not; therefore those noble cities (he read excerpts from letters showing their readiness) were to take the lead, and thither on the morrow-night he would go, let the tidings from the king’s army be what they might.

Merthyr quitted the place rather impressed by his eloquence, but unfavourably by his feverish look.  Countess d’Isorella had been referred to as one who served the cause ably and faithfully.  In alluding to her, Carlo bit his lip; he did not proceed until surrounding murmurs of satisfaction encouraged him to continue a sort of formal eulogy of the lady, which proved to be a defence against foregone charges, for Corte retracted an accusation, and said that he had no fault to find with the countess.  A proposal to join the enterprise was put to Merthyr, but his engagement with the Chief in Rome saved him from hearing much of the marvellous facilities of the plot.  “I should have wished to see you to-night,” Carlo said as they were parting.  Merthyr named his hotel.  Carlo nodded.  “My wife is still slightly feeble,” he said.