a natural and a joyful one, and endowed the popular ebullition with a sense of unity and a stamp of righteousness that the abstract idea of liberty could not assure to it before martyrdom.  After suffering, after walking in the shades of death and despair, men of worth and of valour cease to take high personages as representative objects of worship, even when these (as the good Pope was then doing) benevolently bless the nation and bid it to have great hope, with a voice of authority.  But, for an extended popular movement a great name is like a consecrated banner.  Proclamations from the Pope’s Mouth exacted reverence, and Barto Rizzo, who despised the Pope (because he was Pope, doubtless), did not hesitate to make use of him by virtue of his office.

Barto lay against the heap of rubbish, waiting for the approach of his trained lad, Checco, a lanky simpleton, cunning as a pure idiot, who was doing postman’s duty, when a kick, delivered by that youth behind, sent him bounding round with rage, like a fish in air.  The marketplace resounded with a clapping of hands; for it was here that Checco came daily to eat figs, and it was known that the ‘povero,’ the dear half-witted creature, would not tolerate an intruder in the place where he stretched his limbs to peel and suck in the gummy morsels twice or thrice a day.  Barto seized and shook him.  Checco knocked off his hat; the bandage about the wound broke and dropped, and Barto put his hand to his forehead, murmuring:  ’What ’s come to me that I lose my temper with a boy—­an animal?’

The excitement all over the triangular space was hushed by an imperious guttural shout that scattered the groups.  Two Austrian officers, followed by military servants, rode side by side.  Dust had whitened their mustachios, and the heat had laid a brown-red varnish on their faces.  Way was made for them, while Barto stood smoothing his forehead and staring at Checco.

‘I see the very man!’ cried one of the officers quickly.  ’Weisspriess, there’s the rascal who headed the attack on me in Verona the other day.  It’s the same!

‘Himmel!’ returned his companion, scrutinizing the sword-cut, ’if that’s your work on his head, you did it right well, my Pierson!  He is very neatly scored indeed.  A clean stroke, manifestly!’

’But here when I left Milan! at Verona when I entered the North-west gate there; and the first man I see as I come back is this very brute.  He dogs me everywhere!  By the way, there may be two of them.’

Lieutenant Pierson leaned over his horse’s neck, and looked narrowly at the man Barto Rizzo.  He himself was eyed as in retort, and with yet greater intentness.  At first Barto’s hand was sweeping the air within a finger’s length of his forehead, like one who fought a giddiness for steady sight.  The mist upon his brain dispersing under the gaze of his enemy, his eyeballs fixed, and he became a curious picture of passive malice, his eyes seeming to say:  ’It is enough for me to know your features, and I know them.’  Such a look from a civilian is exasperating:  it was scarcely to be endured from an Italian of the plebs.