“I regret it,” Merthyr rejoined.

“She is not ill.”

“No, it cannot be want of courage,” Merthyr spoke at random.

“Yes, that’s true,” said Carlo, as vacantly.  “You will see her while I am travelling.”

“I hope to find the Countess Alessandra well enough to receive me.”

“Always; always,” said Carlo, wishing apparently to say more.  Merthyr waited an instant, but Carlo broke into a conventional smile of adieu.

“While he is travelling,” Merthyr repeated to Agostino, who had stood by during the brief dialogue, and led the way to the Corso.

“He did not say how far!” was the old man’s ejaculation.

“But, good heaven! if you think he’s on an unfortunate errand, why don’t you stop him, advise him?” Merthyr broke out.

“Advise him! stop him! my friend.  I would advise him, if I had the patience of angels; stop him, if I had the power of Lucifer.  Did you not see that he shunned speaking to me?  I have been such a perpetual dish of vinegar under his nose for the last month, that the poor fellow sniffs when I draw near.  He must go his way.  He leads a torrent that must sweep him on.  Corte, Sana, and the rest would be in Rome now, but for him.  So should I. Your Agostino, however, is not of Bergamo, or of Brescia; he is not a madman; simply a poor rheumatic Piedmontese, who discerns the point where a united Italy may fix its standard.  I would start for Rome to-morrow, if I could leave her—­my soul’s child!” Agostino raised his hand:  “I do love the woman, Countess Alessandra Ammiani.  I say, she is a peerless woman.  Is she not?”

“There is none like her,” said Merthyr.

“A peerless woman, recognized and sacrificed!  I cannot leave her.  If the Government here would lay hands on Carlo and do their worst at once, I would be off.  They are too wary.  I believe that they are luring him to his ruin.  I can give no proofs, but I judge by the best evidence.  What avails my telling him?  I lose my temper the moment I begin to speak.  A curst witch beguiles the handsome idiot—­poor darling lad that he is!  She has him—­can I tell you how?  She has got him—­got him fast!  —­The nature of the chains are doubtless innocent, if those which a woman throws round us be ever distinguishable.  He loves his wife—­he is not a monster.”

“He appears desperately feverish,” said Merthyr.

“Did you not notice it?  Yes, like a man pushed by his destiny out of the path.  He is ashamed to hesitate; he cannot turn back.  Ahead of him he sees a gulf.  That army of Carlo Alberto may do something under its Pole.  Prophecy is too easy.  I say no more.  We may have Lombardy open; and if so, my poor boy’s vanity will be crowned:  he will only have the king and his army against him then.”

Discoursing in this wise, they reached the caffe where Beppo had appointed to meet his old master, and sat amid here and there a whitecoat, and many nods and whispers over such news as the privileged journals and the official gazette afforded.