He being absent from Milan, Barto undertook to represent him and carry out his views.  How far he was entitled to do so may be guessed when it is stated that, on the ground of his general contempt for women, he objected to the proposition that Vittoria should give the signal.  The proposition was Agostino’s.  Count Medole, Barto, and Agostino discussed it secretly:  Barto held resolutely against it, until Agostino thrust a sly-handed letter into his fingers and let him know that previous to any consultation on the subject he had gained the consent of his Chief.  Barto then fell silent.  He despatched his new spy, Luigi, to the Motterone, more for the purpose of giving him a schooling on the expedition, and on his return from it, and so getting hand and brain and soul service out of him.  He expected no such a report of Vittoria’s indiscretion as Luigi had spiced with his one foolish lie.  That she should tell the relatives of an Austrian officer that Milan was soon to be a dangerous place for them;—­and that she should write it on paper and leave it for the officer to read,—­left her, according to Barto’s reading of her, open to the alternative charges of imbecility or of treachery.  Her letter to the English lady, the Austrian officer’s sister, was an exaggeration of the offence, but lent it more the look of heedless folly.  The point was to obtain sight of her letter to the Austrian officer himself.  Barto was baffled during a course of anxious days that led closely up to the fifteenth.  She had written no letter.  Lieutenant Pierson, the officer in question, had ridden into the city once from Verona, and had called upon Antonio-Pericles to extract her address from him; the Greek had denied that she was in Milan.  Luigi could tell no more.  He described the officer’s personal appearance, by saying that he was a recognizable Englishman in Austrian dragoon uniform;—­white tunic, white helmet, brown moustache;—­ay! and eh! and oh! and ah! coming frequently from his mouth; that he stood square while speaking, and seemed to like his own smile; an extraordinary touch of portraiture, or else a scoff at insular self-satisfaction; at any rate, it commended itself to the memory.  Barto dismissed him, telling him to be daily in attendance on the English lady.

Barto Rizzo’s respect for the Chief was at war with his intense conviction that a blow should be struck at Vittoria even upon the narrow information which he possessed.  Twice betrayed, his dreams and haunting thoughts cried “Shall a woman betray you thrice?” In his imagination he stood identified with Italy:  the betrayal of one meant that of both.  Falling into a deep reflection, Barto counted over his hours of conspiracy:  he counted the Chief’s; comparing the two sets of figures he discovered, that as he had suspected, he was the elder in the patriotic work therefore, if he bowed his head to the Chief, it was a voluntary act, a form of respect, and not the surrendering of his judgement.  He