“Very mildly put,” Agostino murmured assentingly.

“In our Journal,” said Carlo, holding out the palm of one hand to dot the forefinger of the other across it, by way of personal illustration—­“in our Journal we might arrange for certain letters to recur at distinct intervals in Roman capitals, which might spell out, ’This Night at Twelve,’ or ‘At Once.’”

“Quite as ingenious, but on the present occasion erring on the side of intricacy.  Aha! you want to increase the sale of your Journal, do you, my boy?  The rogue!”

With which, and a light slap over Carlo’s shoulder, Agostino left him.

The aspect of his own futile proposals stared the young man in the face too forcibly for him to nurse the spark of resentment which was struck out in the turmoil of his bosom.  He veered, as if to follow Agostino, and remained midway, his chest heaving, and his eyelids shut.

“Signor Carlo, I have not thanked you.”  He heard Vittoria speak.  “I know that a woman should never attempt to do men’s work.  The Chief will tell you that we must all serve now, and all do our best.  If we fail, and they put me to great indignity, I promise you that I will not live.  I would give this up to be done by anyone else who could do it better.  It is in my hands, and my friends must encourage me.”

“Ah, signorina!” the young man sighed bitterly.  The knowledge that he had already betrayed himself in the presence of others too far, and the sob in his throat labouring to escape, kept him still.

A warning call from Ugo Corte drew their attention.  Close by the chalet where the first climbers of the mountain had refreshed themselves, Beppo was seen struggling to secure the arms of a man in a high-crowned green Swiss hat, who was apparently disposed to give the signorina’s faithful servant some trouble.  After gazing a minute at this singular contention, she cried—­“It’s the same who follows me everywhere!”

“And you will not believe you are suspected,” murmured Carlo in her ear.

“A spy?” Sana queried, showing keen joy at the prospect of scotching such a reptile on the lonely height.  Corte went up to the Chief.  They spoke briefly together, making use of notes and tracings on paper.  The Chief then said “Adieu” to the signorina.  It was explained to the rest by Corte that he had a meeting to attend near Pella about noon, and must be in Fobello before midnight.  Thence his way would be to Genoa.

“So, you are resolved to give another trial to our crowned ex-Carbonaro,” said Agostino.

“Without leaving him an initiative this time!” and the Chief embraced the old man.  “You know me upon that point.  I cannot trust him.  I do not.  But, if we make such a tide in Lombardy that his army must be drawn into it, is such an army to be refused?  First, the tide, my friend!  See to that.”

“The king is our instrument!” cried Carlo Ammiani, brightening.