of a country called Italy; she has been indiscreet;—­pardon, pardon, signorina! but it is true that she has spoken out from her noble heart.  And this opera!  Are they fools?—­they must see through it.  It will never,—­it can’t possibly be reckoned on to appear.  I knew that the signorina was heart and soul with us; but who could guess that her object was to sacrifice herself in the front rank,—­to lead a forlorn hope!  I tell you it’s like a Pagan rite.  You are positively slaying a victim.  I beg you all to look at the case calmly!”

A burst of laughter checked him; for his seniors by many years could not hear such veteran’s counsel from a hurried boy without being shrewdly touched by the humour of it, while one or two threw a particular irony into their tones.

“When we do slay a victim, we will come to you as our augur, my Carlo,” said Agostino.

Corte was less gentle.  As a Milanese and a mere youth Ammiani was antipathetic to Corte, who closed his laughter with a windy rattle of his lips, and a “pish!” of some emphasis.

Carlo was quick to give him a challenging frown.

“What is it?” Corte bent his head back, as if inquiringly.

“It’s I who claim that question by right,” said Carlo.

“You are a boy.”

“I have studied war.”

“In books.”

“With brains, Colonel Corte.”

“War is a matter of blows, my little lad.”

“Let me inform you, signor Colonel, that war is not a game between bulls, to be played with the horns of the head.”

“You are prepared to instruct me?” The fiery Bergamasc lifted his eyebrows.

“Nay, nay!” said Agostino.  “Between us two first;” and he grasped Carlo’s arm, saying in an underbreath, “Your last retort was too long-winded.  In these conflicts you must be quick, sharp as a rifle-crack that hits echo on the breast-bone and makes her cry out.  I correct a student in the art of war.”  Then aloud:  “My opera, young man!—­well, it’s my libretto, and you know we writers always say ‘my opera’ when we have put the pegs for the voice; you are certainly aware that we do.  How dare you to make calumnious observations upon my opera?  Is it not the ripe and admirable fruit of five years of confinement?  Are not the lines sharp, the stanzas solid? and the stuff, is it not good?  Is not the subject simple, pure from offence to sensitive authority, constitutionally harmless?  Reply!”

“It’s transparent to any but asses,” said Carlo.

“But if it has passed the censorship?  You are guilty, my boy, of bestowing upon those highly disciplined gentlemen who govern your famous city—­what title?  I trust a prophetic one, since that it comes from an animal whose custom is to turn its back before it delivers a blow, and is, they remark, fonder of encountering dead lions than live ones.  Still, it is you who are indiscreet,—­eminently so, I must add, if you will look lofty.  If my opera has passed the censorship! eh, what have you to say?”