Toward nightfall, on the nineteenth of the month, he stood with a small band of Ticinese and Italian fighting lads two miles distant from the city.  There was a momentary break in long hours of rain; the air was full of inexplicable sounds, that floated over them like a toning of multitudes wailing and singing fitfully behind a swaying screen.  They bent their heads.  At intervals a sovereign stamp on the pulsation of the uproar said, distinct as a voice in the ear—­Cannon.  “Milan’s alive!” Angelo cried, and they streamed forward under the hurry of stars and scud, till thumping guns and pattering musket-shots, the long big boom of surgent hosts, and the muffled voluming and crash of storm-bells, proclaimed that the insurrection was hot.  A rout of peasants bearing immense ladders met them, and they joined with cheers, and rushed to the walls.  As yet no gate was in the possession of the people.  The walls showed bayonet-points:  a thin edge of steel encircled a pit of fire.  Angelo resolved to break through at once.  The peasants hesitated, but his own men were of one mind to follow, and, planting his ladder in the ditch, he rushed up foremost.  The ladder was full short; he called out in German to a soldier to reach his hand down, and the butt-end of a musket was dropped, which he grasped, and by this aid sprang to the parapet, and was seized.  “Stop,” he said, “there’s a fellow below with my brandy-flask and portmanteau.”  The soldiers were Italians; they laughed, and hauled away at man after man of the mounting troop, calling alternately “brandy-flask!—­portmanteau!” as each one raised a head above the parapet.  “The signor has a good supply of spirits and baggage,” they remarked.  He gave them money for porterage, saying, “You see, the gates are held by that infernal people, and a quiet traveller must come over the walls.  Viva l’Italia! who follows me?” He carried away three of those present.  The remainder swore that they and their comrades would be on his side on the morrow.  Guided by the new accession to his force, Angelo gained the streets.  All shots had ceased; the streets were lighted with torches and hand-lamps; barricades were up everywhere, like a convulsion of the earth.  Tired of receiving challenges and mounting the endless piles of stones, he sat down at the head of the Corso di Porta Nuova, and took refreshments from the hands of ladies.  The house-doors were all open.  The ladies came forth bearing wine and minestra, meat and bread, on trays; and quiet eating and drinking, and fortifying of the barricades, went on.  Men were rubbing their arms and trying rusty gun-locks.  Few of them had not seen Barto Rizzo that day; but Angelo could get no tidings of his brother.  He slept on a door-step, dreaming that he was blown about among the angels of heaven and hell by a glorious tempest.  Near morning an officer of volunteers came to inspect the barricade defences.  Angelo knew him by sight; it was Luciano Romara.  He explained the position