“I belong to you.”

“I could be a coward and pray for life to live to hear you say it.”

“I feel I breathe another life when you are away from me.”

“You belong to me; you are my own?”

“You take my voice, beloved.”

“And when I claim you, I am to have you?”

“Am I not in your hands?”

“The very instant I make my claim you will say yes?”

“I shall not have strength for more than to nod.”

Carlo shuddered at the delicious image of her weakness.

“My Sandra!  Vittoria, my soul! my bride!”

“O my Carlo!  Do you go to Vicenza?  And did you know I was among these people?”

“You will hear everything from little Leone Rufo, who is wounded and accompanies you to Brescia.  Speak of nothing.  Speak my name, and look at me.  I deserve two minutes of blessedness.”

“Ah! my dearest, if I am sweet to you, you might have many!”

“No; they begin to hum a reproach at me already, for I must be marching.  Vicenza will soon bubble on a fire, I suspect.  Comfort my mother; she wants a young heart at her elbow.  If she is alone, she feeds on every rumour; other women scatter in emotions what poisons her.  And when my bride is with her, I am between them.”

“Yes, Carlo, I will go,” said Vittoria, seeing her duty at last through tenderness.

Carlo sprang from her side to meet Angelo, with whom he exchanged some quick words.  The bugle was sounding, and Barto Rizzo audible.  Luigi came to, her, ruefully announcing that the volunteers had sacked the carriage behaved worse than the Austrians; and that his padrone, the signor Antonio-Pericles, was off like a gossamer.  Angelo induced her to remain on the spot where she stood till the carriage was seen on the Schio road, when he led her to it, saying that Carlo had serious work to do.  Count Karl Lenkenstein was lying in the carriage, supported by Wilfrid and by young Leone Rufo, who sat laughing, with one eye under a cross-bandage and an arm slung in a handkerchief.  Vittoria desired to wait that she might see her lover once more; but Angelo entreated her that she should depart, too earnestly to leave her in doubt of there being good reason for it and for her lover’s absence.  He pointed to Wilfrid:  “Barto Rizzo captured this man; Carlo has released him.  Take him with you to attend on his superior officer.”  She drew Angelo’s observation to the first morning colours over the peaks.  He looked up, and she knew that he remembered that morning of their flight from the inn.  Perhaps he then had the image of his brother in his mind, for the colours seemed to be plucking at his heart, and he said, “I have lost him.”

“God help you, my friend!” said Vittoria, her throat choking.

Angelo pointed at the insensible nobleman:  “These live.  I do not grudge him his breath or his chances; but why should these men take so much killing?  Weisspriess has risen, as though I struck the blow of a babe.  But we one shot does for us!  Nevertheless, signorina,” Angelo smiled firmly, “I complain of nothing while we march forward.”