was distant.  They came to the highest chalet, where a hearty wiry young fellow, busily employed in making cheese, invited them to the enjoyment of shade and fresh milk.  “For the sake of these adolescents, who lose much and require much, let it be so,” said Agostino gravely, and not without some belief that he consented to rest on behalf of his companions.  They allowed the young mountaineer to close the door, and sat about his fire like sagacious men.  When cooled and refreshed, Agostino gave the signal for departure, and returned thanks for hospitality.  Money was not offered and not expected.  As they were going forth the mountaineer accompanied them to the step on the threshold, and with a mysterious eagerness in his eyes, addressed Agostino.

“Signore, is it true?—­the king marches?”

“Who is the king, my friend?” returned Agostino.  “If he marches out of his dominions, the king confers a blessing on his people perchance.”

“Our king, signore!” The mountaineer waved his finger as from Novara toward Milan.

Agostino seemed to awaken swiftly from his disguise of an absolute gravity.  A red light stood in his eyeballs, as if upon a fiery answer.  The intemperate fit subsided.  Smoothing dawn his mottled grey beard with quieting hands, he took refuge in his habitual sententious irony.

“My friend, I am not a hare in front of the king, nor am I a ram in the rear of him:  I fly him not, neither do I propel him.  So, therefore, I cannot predict the movements of the king.  Will the wind blow from the north to-morrow, think you?”

The mountaineer sent a quick gaze up the air, as to descry signs.

“Who knows?” Agostino continued, though not playing into the smiles of his companions; “the wind will blow straight thither where there is a vacuum; and all that we can state of the king is, that there is a positive vacuum here.  It would be difficult to predict the king’s movements save by such weighty indications.”

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.”