It was supposed that Agostino had resumed the habit usually laid aside by him for the discussion of serious matters, and had condescended to father a coarse joke; but his eyes showed no spark of their well-known twinkling solicitation for laughter, and Carlo spoke in answer gravely:—­“From Baveno it will be.”

“From Baveno!  They might as well think to surprise hawks from Baveno.  Keep watch, dear Ammiani; a good start in a race is a kick from the Gods.”

With that, Corte turned to the point of his finger on the map.  He conceived it possible that Carlo Ammiani, a Milanese, had reason to anticipate the approach of people by whom he, or they, might not wish to be seen.  Had he studied Carlo’s face he would have been reassured.  The brows of the youth were open, and his eyes eager with expectation, that showed the flying forward of the mind, and nothing of knotted distrust or wary watchfulness.  Now and then he would move to the other side of the mountain, and look over upon Orta; or with the opera-glass clasped in one hand beneath an arm, he stopped in his sentinel-march, frowning reflectively at a word put to him, as if debating within upon all the bearings of it; but the only answer that came was a sharp assent, given after the manner of one who dealt conscientiously in definite affirmatives; and again the glass was in requisition.  Marco Sana was a fighting soldier, who stated what he knew, listened, and took his orders.  Giulio Bandinelli was also little better than the lieutenant in an enterprise.  Corte, on the other hand, had the conspirator’s head,—­a head like a walnut, bulging above the ears,—­and the man was of a sallying temper.  He lay there putting bit by bit of his plot before the Chief for his approval, with a careful construction, that upon the expression of any doubt of its working smoothly in the streets of Milan, caused him to shout a defensive, “But Carlo says yes!”

This uniform character of Ammiani’s replies, and the smile of Agostino on hearing them, had begun to strike the attention of the soldierly Marco Sana.  He ran his hand across his shorn head, and puffed his burnt red mole-spotted cheeks, with a sidelong stare at the abstracted youth, “Said yes!” he remarked.  “He might say no, for a diversion.  He has yeses enough in his pay to earn a Cardinal’s hat.  ‘Is Milan preparing to rise?’ ‘Yes.’—­’Is she ready for the work?’ ’Yes.’—­’Is the garrison on its guard?’ ‘Yes.’—­’Have you seen Barto Rizzo?’ ’Yes.’—­’Have the people got the last batch of arms?’ ’Yes.’—­And ‘Yes,’ the secret is well kept; ‘Yes,’ Barto Rizzo is steadily getting them together.  We may rely on him:  Carlo is his intimate friend:  Yes, Yes:—­There’s a regiment of them at your service, and you may shuffle them as you will.  This is the help we get from Milan:  a specimen of what we may expect!”

Sana had puffed himself hot, and now blew for coolness.