He was pursuing, when Ugo Corte smote the air with his nervous fingers, crying out passionately, “Bunglers! are we again to wait for them, and hear that fifteen patriots have stabbed a Croat corporal, and wrestled hotly with a lieutenant of the guard?  I say they are bunglers.  They never mean the thing.  Fifteen!  There were just three Milanese among the last lot—­the pick of the city; and the rest were made up of Trentini, and our lads from Bergamo and Brescia; and the order from the Council was, ’Go and do the business!’ which means, ’Go and earn your ounce of Austrian lead.’  They went, and we gave fifteen true men for one poor devil of a curst tight blue-leg.  They can play the game on if we give them odds like that.  Milan burns bad powder, and goes off like a drugged pistol.  It’s a nest of bunglers, and may it be razed!  We could do without it, and well!  If it were a family failing, should not I too be trusting them?  My brother was one of the fifteen who marched out as targets to try the skill of those hell-plumed Tyrolese:  and they did it thoroughly—­shot him straight here.”  Corte struck his chest.  “He gave a jump and a cry.  Was it a viva for Milan?  They swear that it was, and they can’t translate from a living mouth, much more from a dead one; but I know my Niccolo better.  I have kissed his lips a thousand times, and I know the poor boy meant, ‘Scorn and eternal distrust of such peddling conspirators as these!’ I can deal with traitors, but these flash-in-the-pan plotters—­these shaking, jelly-bodied patriots!—­trust to them again?  Rather draw lots for another fifteen to bare their breasts and bandage their eyes, and march out in the grey morning, while the stupid Croat corporal goes on smoking his lumpy pipe!  We shall hear that Milan is moving; we shall rise; we shall be hot at it; and the news will come that Milan has merely yawned and turned over to sleep on the other side.  Twice she has done this trick, and the garrison there has sent five regiments to finish us—­teach us to sleep soundly likewise!  I say, let it be Bergamo; or be it Brescia, if you like; or Venice:  she is ready.  You trust to Milan, and you are fore-doomed.  I would swear it with this hand in the flames.  She give the signal?  Shut your eyes, cross your hands flat on your breasts:  you are dead men if you move.  She lead the way?  Spin on your heels, and you have followed her!”

Corte had spoken in a thick difficult voice, that seemed to require the aid of his vehement gestures to pour out as it did like a water-pipe in a hurricane of rain.  He ceased, red almost to blackness, and knotted his arms, that were big as the cable of a vessel.  Not a murmur followed his speech.  The word was, given to the Chief, and he resumed:—­“You have a personal feeling in this case, Ugo.  You have not heard me.  I came through Paris.  A rocket will soon shoot up from Paris that will be a signal for Christendom.  The keen French wit is sick of its compromise-king.  All Europe is