Carlo endured this banter till the end of it came.

“And you—­you encourage her!” he cried wrathfully.  “You know what the danger is for her, if they once lay hands on her.  They will have her in Verona in four-and-twenty hours; through the gates of the Adige in a couple of days, and at Spielberg, or some other of their infernal dens of groans, within a week.  Where is the chance of a rescue then?  They torture, too, they torture!  It’s a woman; and insult will be one mode of torturing her.  They can use rods—­”

The excited Southern youth was about to cover his face, but caught back his hands, clenching them.

“All this,” said Agostino, “is an evasion, manifestly, of the question concerning my opera, on which you have thought proper to cast a slur.  The phrase, ‘transparent to any but asses,’ may not be absolutely objectionable, for transparency is, as the critics rightly insist, meritorious in a composition.  And, according to the other view, if we desire our clever opponents to see nothing in something, it is notably skilful to let them see through it.  You perceive, my Carlo.  Transparency, then, deserves favourable comment.  So, I do not complain of your phrase, but I had the unfortunate privilege of hearing it uttered.  The method of delivery scarcely conveyed a compliment.  Will you apologize?”

Carlo burst from him with a vehement question to the Chief:  “Is it decided?”

“It is, my friend,” was the reply.

“Decided!  She is doomed!  Signorina! what can you know of this frightful risk?  You are going to the slaughter.  You will be seized before the first verse is out of your lips, and once in their clutches, you will never breathe free air again.  It’s madness!—­ah, forgive me!—­yes, madness!  For you shut your eyes; you rush into the trap blindfolded.  And that is how you serve our Italy!  She sees you an instant, and you are caught away;—­and you who might serve her, if you would, do you think you can move dungeon walls?”

“Perhaps, if I have been once seen, I shall not be forgotten,” said the signorina smoothly, and then cast her eyes down, as if she felt the burden of a little possible accusation of vanity in this remark.  She raised them with fire.

“No; never!” exclaimed Carlo.  “But, now you are ours.  And—­surely it is not quite decided?”

He had spoken imploringly to the Chief.  “Not irrevocably?” he added.

“Irrevocably!”

“Then she is lost!”

“For shame, Carlo Ammiani;” said old Agostino, casting his sententious humours aside.  “Do you not hear?  It is decided!  Do you wish to rob her of her courage, and see her tremble?  It’s her scheme and mine:  a case where an old head approves a young one.  The Chief says Yes! and you bellow still!  Is it a Milanese trick?  Be silent.”

“Be silent!” echoed Carlo.  “Do you remember the beast Marschatska’s bet?” The allusion was to a black incident concerning a young Italian ballet girl who had been carried off by an Austrian officer, under the pretext of her complicity in one of the antecedent conspiracies.