It was early on the morning of a second day, before sunrise, when Vittoria sent for Merthyr to conduct her to the cathedral.  “There has been a battle,” she said.  Her lips hardly joined to frame the syllables in speech.  Merthyr refrained from asking where she had heard of the battle.  As soon as the Duomo doors were open, he led her in and left her standing shrinking under the great vault with her neck fearfully drawn on her shoulders, as one sees birds under thunder.  He thought that she was losing courage.  Choosing to go out on the steps rather than look on her, he was struck by the sight of two horsemen, who proved to be Austrian officers, rattling at racing speed past the Duomo up the Corso.  The sight of them made it seem possible that a battle had been fought.  As soon as he was free, Merthyr went to the Duchess of Graatli, from whom he had the news of Novara.  The officers he had seen were Prince Radocky and Lieutenant Wilfrid Pierson, the old Marshal’s emissaries of victory.  They had made a bet on the bloody field about reaching Milan first, and the duchess affected to be full of the humour of this bet in order to conceal her exultation.  The Lenkensteins called on her; the Countess of Lenkenstein, Anna, and Lena; and they were less considerate, and drew their joy openly from the source of his misery—­a dreadful house for Merthyr to remain in; but he hoped to see Wilfrid, having heard the duchess rally Lena concerning the deeds of the white umbrella, which, Lena said, was pierced with balls, and had been preserved for her.  “The dear foolish fellow insisted on marching right into the midst of the enemy with his absurd white umbrella; and wherever there was danger the men were seen following it.  Prince Radocky told me the whole army was laughing.  How he escaped death was a miracle!” She spoke unaffectedly of her admiration for the owner, and as Wilfrid came in she gave him brilliant eyes.  He shook Merthyr’s hand without looking at him.  The ladies would talk of nothing but the battle, so he went up to Merthyr, and under pretext of an eager desire for English news, drew him away.

“Her husband was not there? not at Novara, I mean?” he said.

“He’s at Brescia,” said Merthyr.

“Well, thank goodness he didn’t stand in those ranks!”

Wilfrid murmured, puffing thoughtfully over the picture they presented to his memory.

Merthyr then tried to hint to him that he had a sort of dull suspicion of Carlo’s being in personal danger, but of what kind he could not say.  He mentioned Weisspriess by name; and Nagen; and Countess Anna.  Wilfrid said, “I’ll find out if there’s anything, only don’t be fancying it.  The man’s in a bad hole at Brescia.  Weisspriess, I believe, is at Verona.  He’s an honourable fellow.  The utmost he would do would be to demand a duel; and I’m sure he’s heartily sick of that work.  Besides, he and Countess Anna have quarrelled.  Meet me;—­by