“That lady should be abed and asleep,” Corte was heard to say.

The remark passed without notice.  Angelo talked apart with Vittoria.  He had seen the dying of the woman whose hand had been checked in the act of striking by the very passion of animal hatred which raised it.  He spoke of her affectionately, attesting to the fact that Barto Rizzo had not prompted her guilt.  Vittoria moaned at a short outline that he gave of the last minutes between those two, in which her name was dreadfully and fatally, incomprehensibly prominent.

All were waiting impatiently for Carlo’s return.

When he appeared he informed his mother that the Countess d’Isorella would remain in the house that night, and his mother passed out to her abhorred guest, who, for the time at least, could not be doing further mischief.

It was a meeting for the final disposition of things before the outbreak.  Carlo had begun to speak when Corte drew his attention to the fact that ladies were present, at which Carlo put out his hand as if introducing them, and went on speaking.

“Your wife is here,” said Corte.

“My wife and signora Piaveni,” Carlo rejoined.  “I have consented to my wife’s particular wish to be present.”

“The signora Piaveni’s opinions are known:  your wife’s are not.”

“Countess Alessandra shares mine,” said Laura, rather tremulously.

Countess Ammiani at the same time returned and took Vittoria’s hand and pressed it with force.  Carlo looked at them both.

“I have to ask your excuses, gentlemen.  My wife, my mother, and signora Piaveni, have served the cause we worship sufficiently to claim a right—­ I am sorry to use such phrases; you understand my meaning.  Permit them to remain.  I have to tell you that Barto Rizzo has been here:  he has started for Brescia.  I should have had to kill him to stop him—­a measure that I did not undertake.”

“Being your duty!” remarked Corte.

Agostino corrected him with a sarcasm.

“I cannot allow the presence of ladies to exclude a comment on manifest indifference,” said Corte.  “Pass on to the details, if you have any.”

“The details are these,” Carlo resumed, too proud to show a shade of self-command; “my cousin Angelo leaves Milan before morning.  You, Colonel Corte, will be in Bergamo at noon to-morrow.  Marco and Angelo will await my coming in Brescia, where we shall find Giulio and the rest.  I join them at five on the following afternoon, and my arrival signals the revolt.  We have decided that the news from the king’s army is good.”

A perceptible shudder in Vittoria’s frame at this concluding sentence caught Corte’s eye.

“Are you dissatisfied with that arrangement?” he addressed her boldly.

“I am, Colonel Corte,” she replied.  So simple was the answering tone of her voice that Corte had not a word.