“Ammiani!  Ammiani!” Romara cried; a roar from the other side, “Barto!  Barto! the Great Cat!” met the cry.  The Austrians struck up a cheer under the iron derision of the bells; it was ludicrous, it was as if a door had slammed on their mouths, ringing tremendous echoes in a vaulted roof.  They stood sweeping fire in two oblong lines; a show of military array was preserved like a tattered robe, till Romara drove at their centre and left the retreat clear across the barricade.  Then the whitecoats were seen flowing over, the motley surging hosts from the city in pursuit—­foam of a storm-torrent hurled forward by the black tumult of precipitous waters.  Angelo fell on his brother’s neck; Romara clasped Carlo Ammiani.  These two were being marched from the prison to the citadel when Barto Rizzo, who had prepared to storm the building, assailed the troops.  To him mainly they were indebted for their rescue.

Even in that ecstasy of meeting, the young men smiled at the preternatural transport on his features as he bounded by them, mad for slaughter, and mounting a small brass gun on the barricade, sent the charges of shot into the rear of the enemy.  He kissed the black lip of his little thunderer in, a rapture of passion; called it his wife, his naked wife; the best of mistresses, who spoke only when he charged her to speak; raved that she was fair, and liked hugging; that she was true, and the handsomest daughter of Italy; that she would be the mother of big ones—­none better than herself, though they were mountains of sulphur big enough to make one gulp of an army.

His wife in the flesh stood at his feet with a hand-grenade and a rifle, daggers and pistols in her belt.  Her face was black with powder-smoke as the muzzle of the gun.  She looked at Rinaldo once, and Rinaldo at her; both dropped their eyes, for their joy at seeing one another alive was mighty.

Dead Austrians were gathered in a heap.  Dead and wounded Milanese were taken into the houses.  Wine was brought forth by ladies and household women.  An old crutched beggar, who had performed a deed of singular intrepidity in himself kindling a fire at the door of one of the principal buildings besieged by the people, and who showed perforated rags with a comical ejaculation of thanks to the Austrians for knowing how to hit a scarecrow and make a beggar holy, was the object of particular attention.  Barto seated him on his gun, saying that his mistress and beauty was honoured; ladies were proud in waiting on the fine frowzy old man.  It chanced during that morning that Wilfrid Pierson had attached himself to Lieutenant Jenna’s regiment as a volunteer.  He had no arms, nothing but a huge white umbrella, under which he walked dry in the heavy rain, and passed through the fire like an impassive spectator of queer events.  Angelo’s Swiss had captured them, and the mob were maltreating them because they declined to shout for this valorous ancient beggarman.  “No doubt he’s a capital fellow,”