He laid two fingers hard against the rib which shields the heart.  It had become apparently necessary for the speaker to relieve a mind surcharged with bile at the mention of the king; for, having done, he rebuked with an amazed frown the indiscretion of Carlo, who had shouted, “The Carbonaro king!”

“Carlo, my son, I will lean on your arm.  On your mouth were better,” Agostino added, under his voice, as they moved on.

“Oh, but,” Carlo remonstrated, “let us trust somebody.  Milan has made me sick of late.  I like the look of that fellow.”

“You allow yourself, my Carlo, an immense indulgence in permitting yourself to like the look of anything.  Now, listen—­Viva Carlo Alberto!”

The old man rang out the loyal salutation spiritedly, and awoke a prompt response from the mountaineer, who sounded his voice wide in the keen upper air.

“There’s the heart of that fellow!” said Agostino.  “He has but one idea—­his king!  If you confound it, he takes you for an enemy.  These free mountain breezes intoxicate you.  You would embrace the king himself if you met him here.”

“I swear I would never be guilty of the bad joke of crying a ‘Viva’ to him anywhere upon earth,” Carlo replied.  “I offend you,” he said quickly.

The old man was smiling.

“Agostino Balderini is too notoriously a bad joker to be offended by the comments of the perfectly sensible, boy of mine!  My limbs were stiff, and the first three steps from a place of rest reminded me acutely of the king’s five years of hospitality.  He has saved me from all fatigue so long, that the necessity to exercise these old joints of mine touched me with a grateful sense of his royal bounty.  I had from him a chair, a bed, and a table:  shelter from sun and from all silly chatter.  Now I want a chair or a bed.  I should like to sit at a table; the sun burns me; my ears are afflicted.  I cry ‘Viva!’ to him that I may be in harmony with the coming chorus of Italy, which I prophetically hear.  That young fellow, in whom you confide so much, speaks for his country.  We poor units must not be discordant.  No!  Individual opinion, my Carlo, is discord when there is a general delirium.  The tide arriving, let us make the best of the tide.  My voice is wisdom.  We shall have to follow this king!”

“Shall we!” uttered one behind them gruffly.  “When I see this king swallow one ounce of Austrian lead, I shall not be sorry to follow him!”

“Right, my dear Ugo,” said Agostino, turning round to him; “and I will then compose his hymn of praise.  He has swallowed enough of Austrian bread.  He took an Austrian wife to his bed.  Who knows? he may some day declare a preference for Austrian lead.  But we shall have to follow him, or stay at home drivelling.”

Agostino raised his eyes, that were glazed with the great heat of his frame.